“Claire, is that you?” Donald asked. “Please, think about your family’s reputation. A public trial will drag the Hayes name through the mud.”

“My husband did that when he started selling my father’s cellar,” I said.

I hit the button to end the call.

Lydia drove in silence for a moment, her eyes on the road ahead.

“They’re going to try to block the probate injunction first thing in the morning,” she said.

“Can they?” I asked.

“Not with that signed deed we just found,” she said. “But Vivian will have her own lawyers there.”

We arrived at the courthouse just as the first drops of rain began to smear the windshield.

The limestone building looked massive and forbidding under the dark clouds.

We walked up the stone steps, Lydia carrying her heavy leather briefcase.

Inside, the hallway was quiet, smelling of floor wax and old paper.

We reached the clerk’s office, where Malcolm’s deputy was already waiting with the sealed evidence bags.

“The judge is in chambers,” the clerk said, looking up from her desk. “She’s expecting you.”