Standing in the hallway was Martha, looking regal despite her fatigue, her cane planted firmly on the threshold like a scepter. Flanking her were two uniformed police officers, their expressions grim. And beside them stood Mr. Henderson, the family attorney, holding a thick leather briefcase. A locksmith was already stepping aside, packing his drill into a tool belt.

“What is this?” Kevin shouted, his face turning a deep, blotchy red. “You’re trespassing! Get out! This is my house! Dad left it to me!”

He pointed a shaking finger at the police officers. “Officers, remove this woman! She doesn’t live here anymore! This is harassment!”

Mr. Henderson stepped forward. He was a tall man with gray hair and eyes that had seen every variety of human greed over forty years of practice. He looked at Kevin with the same expression one might look at a stubborn stain on a rug.

“Mr. Kevin,” the lawyer said, his voice calm and projecting effortlessly over Kevin’s shouting. “I suggest you lower your voice. You are currently disturbing the peace in a private residence.”

“My residence!” Kevin yelled, stepping into Henderson’s face. “My father’s house! I am the heir!”

“No,” Mr. Henderson said simply. He walked past Kevin to the dining table, ignoring Jessica who was shrinking back against the wall, and placed the briefcase down with a heavy thud. The sound silenced the room.