“Mrs. Sterling, I will ask you once more,” the investigator said. “Where is the original signed estate document?”

“This is my house,” Miranda said, her voice trembling slightly. “You have no right to question me in this manner.”

“I have a warrant signed by a federal judge, Mrs. Sterling,” Vance said.

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, placing it flat on the desk.

“And I have the statement of Nathaniel Vale, who has already surrendered his personal ledgers from that year.”

Miranda’s face lost the last of its color.

She looked at the paper, then at me.

Her eyes were dark with a hatred that felt cold and ancient.

“You,” she whispered.

I did not flinch.

I stood by the door, my hands folded over the front of my grey housekeeper’s apron.

The fabric felt coarse against my skin, a constant reminder of the months I had spent cleaning her floors.

“The truth always finds its way out, Mrs. Sterling,” I said.

“You are a maid,” she spat, her voice dropping to a low hiss. “A common domestic who crawled her way into my home.”