He set the heavy insulated bag down on the wooden bench, grabbed his clipboard, and practically jogged down the porch steps.

His boots crunched loudly on the gravel driveway.

A moment later, his truck door slammed shut.

The engine roared to life, and he backed out of the driveway, kicking up a small cloud of grey dust.

“Where did you get that?” Juliette whispered again.

Her knuckles were turning white against the strap of her leather handbag.

“It came from a local number,” I said.

“But the document is real, isn’t it?”

I scrolled down the image, zooming in on the official stamp of the county probate court.

“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I said.

My voice sounded cold and hollow in the heavy afternoon heat.

“Paid out to you directly from your sister’s estate, three days ago.”

Juliette took a step back.

The heels of her sandals clicked sharply on the painted floorboards of the porch.

“That is private family business,” she said, her voice trembling with rising anger.

“You had absolutely no right to look at that.”

“Private?” I asked.