Sloane did not make a sound as she was led away behind them.

I watched them walk through the side door of the courtroom.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of rain against the high windows.

Lydia turned to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“It is over, Claire,” she said.

“The estate is yours.”

The sun finally broke through the clouds the following afternoon.

I drove through the iron gates of Magnolia Hill alone.

The gravel driveway crunched under my tires.

The old Victorian house stood at the end of the road, surrounded by rows of budding vines.

I got out of the car and walked up the stone steps of the front porch.

The air smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine.

I unlocked the heavy front door and stepped inside.

The hallway was quiet, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight.

I walked down the corridor to the cellar stairs.

The door to the cellar was no longer sealed with police tape.

I flipped the light switch, and the yellow bulbs illuminated the stone steps.