The light coming through the tall windows was pale and thin.

I sat in the second row of the gallery.

Grandfather Bradford sat beside me, his hands resting on his silver-handled cane.

His breathing was slow and heavy.

Vivian stood at the defense table in a plain gray suit.

Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight, neat bun.

She looked smaller than she had in the grand house at Lake Geneva.

The judge, a woman with graying hair and a stern face, adjusted her glasses.

“Vivian Bradford,” the judge said.

“The evidence of your financial manipulation is overwhelming.”

“You abused your position of trust to systematically drain funds from your own family’s holdings.”

“And you did so to avoid legitimate creditors and regulatory oversight.”

The courtroom was silent except for the scratch of a reporter’s pen.

“I sentence you to seventy-two months in federal custody,” the judge announced.

“To be followed by three years of supervised release.”

Vivian did not flinch.

She kept her chin raised, looking straight ahead at the judge’s bench.

Two bailiffs stepped forward to escort her out through the side door.