“Send her in,” Grace said.

The heavy oak door of the office swung open a moment later.

Margaret Whitmore walked in alone.

She wore a tailored charcoal wool coat and black leather gloves, her silver hair styled in a neat, rigid bob.

She did not look like a woman who had just rushed across town in the rain.

Her face was a mask of aristocratic indifference, but I saw the slight tightness around her mouth.

She didn’t look at me at first.

She looked at Grace’s modest office, her eyes lingering on the neat stacks of case files and the cheap reproduction print on the wall.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” Grace said, offering a polite but distant nod. “Thank you for coming.”

“Let’s not pretend this is a social call, Ms. Monroe,” Margaret said.

Her voice was dry and clear, carrying the distinct accent of old New England wealth.

She pulled off her leather gloves, finger by finger, and placed them on the corner of Grace’s desk.

Then, she turned her cold blue eyes to me.

“Vivian.”

“Margaret,” I said, keeping my hands flat on my lap so she wouldn’t see them tremble.