But it wasn’t Claire.

A sleek black SUV was parked behind my car.

The driver’s side door opened, and a man in a dark suit got out.

He carried a heavy leather briefcase.

He looked up at the house, his expression grim, and began to walk toward the front porch.

I hurried down the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I opened the heavy oak front door before the man could ring the bell.

The man stopped on the top step, his gloved hand hovering in the air.

He looked at me with cold, professional eyes.

“Evelyn Vance?” he asked.

His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

“Yes,” I said, gripping the edge of the door.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a laminated ID card, then gestured to his heavy leather briefcase.

“I am a specialized courier with the state records department,” he said. “I have the certified archival documents you requested from the county probate court.”

He set his briefcase on the porch railing and popped the brass latches.

The sharp metallic sound echoed in the quiet afternoon air.