Outside, a winter storm was building, the wind clawing at the eaves like something wounded and furious. Inside the cabin, the air was even heavier — thick with tension, old resentments, and the kind of desperation that makes people dangerous.
I stood near the stone hearth with my arms crossed, forcing myself to stay still. Mark, my brother-in-law, paced the room like a trapped animal. His expensive sweater was rumpled, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled faintly of stale scotch and panic.
“I told you already,” I said quietly, every word measured. “I’m not signing anything. This cabin isn’t just an asset. It’s the only place Leo feels safe. It’s his history.”Continue reading…
