“You told me the money was already yours, Evan,” Sloane said, her voice dripping with venom.

“You told me the probate was a mere formality because Claire was getting the house and you were getting the liquid portfolio.”

Evan glared at her, his face flushing a deep, angry red that crept up his neck.

“Keep your mouth shut, Sloane,” Evan muttered.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” she snapped, stepping back toward the kitchen doorway.

“I let you store those crates in my dining room because you said it was your personal inheritance.”

“I am not going to jail for your family’s dynamic.”

Malcolm didn’t look up from his notepad as he wrote down the serial numbers printed on the wooden crates.

The pencil made a dry scratching sound against the paper.

“The law doesn’t recognize a broker’s advice as a defense against unauthorized removal of estate property,” Malcolm said.

“Especially when the executor of the estate has not granted permission.”

He turned his head slightly toward me.

“Did you authorize this removal, Claire?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t even know the cellar had been unsealed.”