Margaret let out a sharp, bitter laugh that echoed off the high ceiling.

“Do you think I care about the local police, Richard?” she asked.

“I know what you’re doing.”

She pointed a manicured finger at me, her eyes wild and bloodshot.

“She is a thief,” Margaret spat.

“She is trying to steal my son’s legacy.”

“Your son’s legacy belongs to his daughters,” I said, stepping out from behind Richard.

“The daughters you tried to starve.”

“The daughters you tried to take from me.”

Margaret’s face contorted with hatred.

“They are Whitmores,” she said.

“They do not belong with a common girl from the suburbs.”

“They belong with the family that built this town.”

“And you,” she turned her glare to Richard, “you are harboring a fugitive. Thomas Vale is my attorney.”

“He has no right to be here.”

“Actually, Mr. Vale is cooperating with a criminal investigation,” Richard said.

“He has just signed a full confession detailing your fraud.”

Margaret froze.

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine fear crossed her cold blue eyes.

But she quickly masked it with a sneer.