I knew the name. My father loved to boast about his connections, people he’d once bought a beer for and now claimed as allies. Morris had been around at holiday dinners a couple of times—slick suit, expensive watch, the kind of man who laughed at Robert’s jokes a little too quickly.
I nodded, as if I were accepting the threat.
Then I took my own phone out.
Dozens of notifications waited on my screen, lined up like a silent army: motion detected, door unlocked, interior camera triggered, wine cellar access, back door opened, guest room occupancy.
Alerts from the hidden cameras installed throughout the house going back several days.
Yes, I already knew.
While I was away on business in San Francisco—three days of investor meetings, client dinners, a product demo that could have made or broken our quarter—my family had entered my home repeatedly. They’d lounged on my bed. They’d walked barefoot across my floors. They’d gone through my things. They’d helped themselves to the vintage bottles I’d stored in my wine cellar, bottles worth thousands, gifts from a client I’d worked two years to win.
They’d treated my sanctuary like a hotel they were entitled to trash.