The sound of my walking cane snapping in half was louder than the music.

At precisely 8:15 PM, the heavy mahogany door of my fourth-floor loft apartment shook on its hinges.

*BANG. BANG. BANG.*

"Grace! Open this damn door!"

It was Brooke.

I sat at my kitchen island, sipping a cup of chamomile tea, wearing soft linen trousers and a thick cardigan. Beside me on the quartz counter rested my new spare folding cane—a plain, sturdy aluminum one I kept in the closet for emergencies.

*BANG. BANG.*

"Grace! I know you're in there! Your car is parked downstairs!" Daniel’s voice joined Brooke’s. He was usually so measured, so polished in his tailored button-downs, but now his voice cracked with panic. "Grace, open up! We need to talk about this paperwork! There’s been a legal mistake!"

I stood up, took my aluminum cane, and walked calmly to the door. I didn't unlock the deadbolt. I simply looked through the peephole.

Brooke’s face was beet-red, mascara smeared beneath her swollen eyes. Her designer sundress looked wrinkled, and she was clutching a stack of blue legal papers in her manicured hands. Daniel stood beside her, furiously typing on his smartphone while sweat stained the collar of his shirt.

I flipped the latch on the intercom speaker beside the door.

"You have five seconds to step away from my door, Brooke, or building security will call the Columbus police," I said.

Brooke gasped, lunging closer to the wood. "Grace! What the hell is *Highland Crest Properties*? Why did the sheriff serve us with a stop-work injunction on the pool house? Why is your name listed as the sole corporate manager?"

"Because I own the house, Brooke. Every brick, every shingle, and every square foot of the lawn your son kicked his dirty sneakers across."

"You lied to us!" Brooke shrieked, slamming her palm against the door. "Mom told me she owned the house! She promised me the property! I just put down an eighteen-thousand-dollar non-refundable deposit to the masonry company to remodel the entire pool deck! The demolition crew arrives tomorrow morning at seven!"

"You'd better call them and cancel," I said smoothly. "Because if a single jackhammer touches my flagstone tomorrow, I will have the contractors arrested for criminal trespassing and vandalism. And then I will sue you personally for the cost of repairs."

Daniel pushed his face toward the intercom. "Grace, listen to reason. Brooke acted out of line at the party. We admit that. She was stressed out. Brayden had a meltdown earlier, and she shouldn't have broken your cane. I will write you a check right now for five hundred dollars to buy the best cane in the world. But you cannot cancel the renovation! My business partner’s firm financed the mezzanine loan for our remodel! If this property title is contested, my firm’s credit rating will be downgraded!"

I let out a slow, cold laugh through the speaker.

"You financed a personal loan against a property you didn't hold deed to?" I asked. "You're a certified public accountant, Daniel. What kind of fraudulent asset declaration did you submit to your lenders?"

Silence fell over the hallway.

Through the peephole, I saw Daniel’s face drain of all color. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked at Brooke with a sudden, sickening dread.

"Grace..." Daniel stammered, his arrogance instantly evaporating. "Let us inside. Please. Just five minutes."

"Go home, Daniel. Comfort your wife. And tell my mother that her living arrangement is currently under review."

I clicked the intercom off.

Outside, Brooke began to kick the bottom of the door. "You vindictive bitch! You planned this! You’ve been sitting on this for years just to humiliate me! Mom will never forgive you for this!"

Thirty seconds later, the elevator bell chimed down the hall. I heard the firm, authoritative voice of our building’s head of security, Marcus, an ex-marine who weighed 250 pounds:

"Ma’am, step away from the doorway immediately. Keep your hands where I can see them. The building manager has already dialed 911."