“He handles estate liquidations all the time.”

“Not this estate,” I said. “And not while the probate dispute is active.”

I looked at Vivian, who was casually slicing a piece of duck.

She chewed slowly, watching me with cold, dismissive eyes.

“You always were dramatic, Claire,” Vivian said. “Just like your mother.”

My hands clenched into fists inside my coat pockets.

The memory of my mother’s quiet, dignified funeral rose in my mind.

This wine was supposed to be a tribute, not a trophy for her husband’s mistress.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Lydia Hart walked in first, her leather briefcase gripped firmly in her hand.

Behind her stood Deputy Malcolm, his uniform damp from the rain.

His utility belt clinked with every step.

Vivian’s smile vanished.

She set her glass down with a sharp clink against the mahogany.

“What is this?” Vivian asked, her voice sharp. “Who authorized you to bring police into this home?”

Evan stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?” Evan demanded.

“Deputy Malcolm, this is private property.”

“Not when a court-ordered seal has been violated, Mr. Hayes,” Malcolm said.

He stepped up to the table, his eyes locked on the bottle.

He pulled a heavy camera from his belt and pointed it at the table.

The flash flared bright against the dark glass of the Latour bottle.

Sloane shielded her eyes with her manicured hand.

“This is absurd,” Vivian hissed. “It’s a bottle of fermented grapes.”

“It is probate fraud, Mrs. Hayes,” Lydia said calmly.

She placed her briefcase on the sideboard and popped the brass latches.

The sound was loud in the quiet room.

“Cole Brantley did not sell you this bottle,” Lydia said, pulling a manila folder from her case.

“We have the digital logs from the Hayes cellar security system.”