Grace stepped into his path once more, her face expressionless.

“Do not touch anyone, Mr. Ashford,” Grace said. “I am recording this entire interaction.”

She held up her phone, the small red light of the voice recorder glowing.

Beatrice did not move, but her eyes narrowed to thin slits as she watched me.

She looked past me, toward the dark hallway where Dr. Marren stood.

Dr. Marren wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes darting between Beatrice and Harrison.

“This is a desperate fabrication,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.

She smoothed the front of her designer jacket.

“You have been under immense stress, Vivian,” she said, her tone suddenly shifting to one of false pity.

“We all know how fragile your mental state has been since your mother passed.”

I looked at her, refusing to let her see any fear in my eyes.

“The letter is real, Beatrice,” I said. “And the key is here.”

Matteo produced a small, silver key from the lower hem of the dress.

He held it up, the metal catching the dim light of the chandelier.