“Marcus tried to sell the graves of your ancestors, Aunt Caroline,” I said, looking up at her.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, her face twisting in a mix of grief and embarrassment.

“He used forged deeds and dummy corporations to do it,” I added, my voice steady.

“I did it for us,” Marcus said, turning toward the stairs. “To save this house. To pay off your debts too, Caroline.”

“Don’t bring me into your crimes,” she cried, descending the stairs slowly, her hand dragging along the banister.

“The county will freeze your personal and business assets immediately, Marcus,” Lydia said, her tone professional and cold.

“That includes the offshore account used for the initial deposit on the north ridge development.”

I looked around the ancient walls of Mercer House, at the peeling wallpaper and the water stains near the ceiling.

The plaster was cracked, and the dampness of the Virginia winter was rising from the cellar below.

“What happens to the ridge now?” I asked Lydia.

“The land transfers are void,” Lydia said. “The title reverts to the estate’s primary trust.”