It was professional, sharp, and formal.

I put on a pair of silver earrings that had belonged to Eleanor.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a victim.

I saw the rightful owner of Blackthorn Ridge.

The drive to the county registry office took twenty minutes.

The roads were wet, the trees dripping water onto the asphalt.

I parked my car in the gravel lot behind the historic brick building.

Harper Sloane’s black SUV was already parked near the entrance.

As I walked up the stone steps, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Harper.

*They are all inside. Room 204.*

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the registry.

The air inside smelled of old paper, floor wax, and central heating.

My heels clicked sharply on the polished terrazzo floor.

I took the stairs to the second floor.

Room 204 was a small conference room with a long walnut table.

When I opened the door, the conversation stopped instantly.

Graham was sitting at the head of the table, looking immaculate in a gray designer suit.