“She was grieving,” Lydia said, her voice rising slightly.

“She was unstable,” Evan snapped, his composure cracking for a fraction of a second.

“She was a danger to herself and to the assets of the Hayes estate.”

I looked at the screen, at the words *Psychiatric Admission* typed in cold, black letters.

My throat felt dry, like sand.

The memory of those weeks after my father’s death was a blur of gray walls and heavy medication.

Evan had chosen the facility.

Evan had spoken to the doctors.

And now, I realized, Evan had planned this exit strategy years before he ever stole the first bottle of wine.

“We can settle this tonight,” Evan said, lowering the phone but keeping his thumb on the screen.

“You drop the allegations regarding the cellar.”

“You instruct the probate court that the wine sales were authorized by you.”

“And we sign a private separation agreement,” he said, taking a slow step toward the table.

He reached out and touched the neck of the empty vintage bottle standing between us.

“If you do that, these files stay in my private cloud,” he whispered.