“The climate there did not suit my conscience, Miranda,” Vale said.

He lifted his leather briefcase and set it on the mahogany writing desk.

The brass clasps clicked open with a sharp, metallic ring.

I held the red-sealed envelope close to my chest.

Julian looked at me, his expression unreadable, though a small nod passed between us.

He did not look like a man surprised by what he saw.

“What is the meaning of this, Julian?” Miranda demanded, trying to regain her posture. “Why did you bring this man into my private quarters?”

“It is not your private quarters anymore, Mother,” Julian said.

His voice was quiet, carrying a heavy, cold certainty.

“This room, and everything in it, belongs to the Sterling estate,” Julian added. “And we are here to determine who actually owns that estate.”

Miranda pointed a trembling, manicured finger at Vale.

“That man retired years ago,” she said. “His mind is gone. He has no authority here.”

Vale smiled, a slow, thin line on his weathered face.

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a fountain pen, then turned back to his briefcase.