Gregory’s trial was scheduled for the spring, but his lawyers were already negotiating a plea to avoid a maximum sentence.

The newspapers reported that his legal defense had exhausted what remained of his personal trust.

Denise had filed for bankruptcy twice in ten days, her penthouse and sports cars seized by the state.

The Richards Group was no more; its offices were dark, and the brass sign on the high-rise had been removed.

We drove to the small apartment Eleanor had rented in San Francisco.

It was a modest space on the second floor, looking out over a small park.

There were no gilded mirrors or imported rugs here.

Only a few cardboard boxes sat on the wooden floor, containing the personal items she had saved from the estate.

On the mantelpiece sat a single framed photograph of my father in his olive-drab uniform.

He was smiling, his arm draped over the shoulder of a younger Eleanor.

“I kept this hidden in my cedar chest for thirty years,” she said, standing beside me.

“Gregory told me he burned all of them,” I said.