Evan pulled out a folded piece of paper, his hand shaking so much the paper rustled in the quiet room.

“I will sign over my share of the townhouse,” he said, holding the paper toward me.

“And I will waive any claim to the Hayes trust income from the last three years.”

I looked at the paper, then up at his pale face.

“In exchange for what?” I asked.

“We sign a private settlement,” he said, leaning in.

“We keep this out of the probate record. You drop the criminal complaint regarding the cellar theft.”

He looked at me with a pleading expression that I used to mistake for sincerity.

“If this goes to a public trial, the Hayes name will be dragged through the mud,” he said.

“The newspapers will have a field day with the forged deeds and the wine sales.”

“The Hayes name will survive,” I said.

“Your reputation is what you are trying to save.”

“My mother is old, Claire,” he said, his voice tightening.

“Vivian can’t handle a public trial. Her health won’t take the stress.”