For a long moment, I couldn’t even breathe. “I’m sorry, what?”

The woman spoke then, her tone sharp. “This house was passed down in our family. Logan had no right to leave it to anyone else. We’ll need the keys.”

I tightened my grip on the doorframe, rage and disbelief flooding me in equal measure. “Logan left everything to me. It was his wish. I have the will. I—”

The man cut me off. “We don’t care what papers say. We’re his blood. This house is ours.”

My chest tightened. Of all the battles I had expected to fight while grieving, this was not one of them. But I forced myself to breathe, to steady the shaking in my hands.

Finally, I said, “Fine. You want the house? I’ll give you the keys. But only if you can answer one question.”