There was a reason my father had jumped the gun on getting the power of attorney signed and had called the notary too soon. He wanted to fail. He could have executed the plan properly—if he had laid the groundwork, as Serena had said. But he hadn’t. Because if he had, the problem would have been solved, and then we would have gone on our merry way, our pockets stuffed full of cash. We would have headed for the white cliffs of Dover, scooped up my mother, and lived happily ever after. But my father didn’t want to solve the problem that easily—or, at least, he didn’t want to solve the problem we all saw. There was something deeper he was getting at. I didn’t know what it was. I’m pretty sure Serena didn’t know, either. I’m not even sure my father knew. But it was there. I could feel it rumbling under the surface of everything we did. Riddell House was no longer dead. The old trees that held up the walls and the roof were stirring. They were waking from a long slumber, and their sap was flowing once again.
