Nobody answered her.

She set the box down on the sideboard with a hollow clatter of glass.

Behind her, the front door remained open, letting in the damp, cold draft of the autumn evening.

Footsteps sounded on the porch outside.

Lydia Hart stepped into the foyer, shaking the rain from her umbrella.

She wore her dark gray wool coat, her briefcase clutched tightly in her left hand.

“I see we are all gathered,” Lydia said, her voice calm and level.

Vivian stood up straight, smoothing the front of her designer knit top.

“This is an intrusion,” Vivian said, pointing a manicured finger at Lydia. “This is private property, and you have no right to harrass my son.”

“Actually, Mrs. Hayes, this is Ms. Pierce’s leased residence,” Lydia said, closing her umbrella. “And Deputy Malcolm is here executing a lawful probate preservation order.”

Evan wiped his palms on his trousers, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

“Claire, stop this,” Evan said, looking at me. “You’re making a massive mistake.”

“The only mistake was trusting you with my father’s keys,” I said.