It was my mother’s elegant, sloping script, written in dark blue ink.

Harrison’s eyes went wide, the color draining from his face.

He lunged forward, his hand reaching down to snatch the paper before anyone else could move.

Grace stepped forward with a swiftness that defied her quiet posture.

She pressed the hard edge of her leather briefcase directly over the cream-colored envelope.

Harrison’s outstretched hand slammed against the leather instead of the paper.

“Mine, I believe,” Grace said, her voice steady and cool.

She slid the envelope from beneath the briefcase and stood upright in one fluid motion.

Harrison scrambled to his feet, his face flushed red and his breathing heavy.

“Give that to me,” Harrison snarled, stepping toward her. “It is Ashford property.”

“It has my mother’s name on it,” I said, stepping between them.

Grace handed the envelope directly to me.

The paper felt heavy, thick, and slightly cool in my hand.

Sloane whimpered, holding the front of the torn silk dress together with both hands.

The sound of rain tapped against the high glass windows of the gallery, filling the silence.