“Don’t tell me to shut up in my own home,” Sloane snapped, standing up so fast her dining chair scraped loud against the floor.

“You said your father-in-law was a fool who left everything in a complete mess.”

“You said we would have the entire cellar liquidated by the end of the month.”

Vivian stood up too, her pearl necklace catching the light of the chandelier.

“Evan, do not say another word,” Vivian warned, her eyes darting toward Lydia’s phone.

“They are recording everything you say.”

“Let them record,” Sloane cried, her voice cracking. “I am not going to court for your family’s garbage.”

“Lydia, we are leaving,” I said, turning my back on the three of them.

I could not stand the smell of the spilled wine and the heavy, suffocating perfume in the room any longer.

“We have what we need for the probate judge,” Lydia said, closing her briefcase with a decisive snap of the brass latches.

Malcolm returned from the kitchen, holding a smaller plastic bag containing the wet, stained cork.