We walked down the narrow, carpeted hallway toward the dining room.

The voices from upstairs grew louder, sharp with panic.

“We have to get the rest of the crates out tonight,” Evan was saying.

“The buyer is waiting,” Sloane replied, her voice tight.

We reached the threshold of the dining room.

The chandelier cast a bright, clinical light over the mahogany table.

On the table sat three open wooden crates, stamped with my father’s estate logo.

An empty bottle of the 1961 Château Latour stood near Evan’s elbow.

He held a half-filled glass, his tie loosened, his face flushed.

Sloane stood by the sideboard, her fingers twisting her pearl necklace.

At the far end of the table sat Vivian, Evan’s mother.

She wore a grey knit suit, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on a ledger.

“Claire,” Evan said, his glass freezing midway to his mouth.

The color drained from his face, leaving him a sallow grey.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to find his usual smooth tone.

“I came to see my father’s wine,” I said.