The first line was clearly visible under the beam of Malcolm’s flashlight.

*To Evan: Use this only if she threatens to audit the trust.*

I leaned closer, my breath catching in my throat as I read the next line.

*If she looks too closely at the probate reports, the transfer of the 1945 Romanée-Conti will expose the rest of the ledger.*

My hand shook as I stared at the ink.

“Don’t touch it yet, Claire,” Lydia said softly, her hand still firm on my forearm.

Deputy Malcolm knelt on the Persian rug of Sloane’s dining room, his gloved fingers carefully lifting the yellowed deed.

“This is the real thing,” Malcolm said, his voice flat and professional.

He turned the document over, letting the camera flash of the forensic photographer capture the wax seal and Vivian’s note.

Across the room, Sloane Pierce sat at her polished mahogany dining table, her face drained of color.

She was wearing a silk cream blouse, but she had spilled coffee down the front of it when the deputies first knocked on her door.