Sloane didn’t answer; she just gripped the wooden handrail until her knuckles turned white.

“The receipts will show a transfer from Brantley’s brokerage,” Lydia said to Malcolm. “But the underlying title belongs to Claire.”

Malcolm nodded and signaled to his deputy to begin packing the bottles into padded transport cases.

“There’s more,” the other deputy called out from the back utility room.

We followed him through a low doorway into a small storage room behind the furnace.

Stacked against the concrete wall were four large, plastic storage tubs.

Malcolm popped the lid off the first one.

Inside, wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, was the silver tea service my grandmother had received for her wedding.

Next to it was a pair of oil landscapes by a regional nineteenth-century artist that used to hang in our library.

“Vivian told me these were hers,” Sloane muttered, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She said they were her personal property from the divorce.”

“My mother-in-law hasn’t owned these pieces since the trust was restructured in 2018,” I said.

My voice sounded incredibly calm, even to myself, though my chest felt tight.