I looked at the massive portrait of Arthur Sterling hanging above the fireplace.

His stern eyes seemed to stare down at us from the canvas.

“Your grandfather had a sister, Julian,” I said.

Miranda took a sharp breath, her phone slipping from her hand.

It fell onto the thick Persian rug with a soft thud.

“Stop talking,” Miranda whispered, her voice cracking. “Do not say another word.”

“Mother, let her speak,” Julian said, his hand reaching out to steady her.

“She is lying, Julian!” Miranda cried, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and fury. “She is trying to destroy everything we have built.”

I unclasped the necklace from around my neck, holding the heavy gold chain in my palm.

The sapphire caught the light of the single lamp, deep and dark.

“This did not belong to Arthur,” I said.

“This did not belong to Arthur,” I said.

“It belonged to Clara.”

Miranda’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her silk blouse.

“Clara died in a sanitarium,” Miranda spat, her fingers clawing at the edge of the mahogany desk.

“She died penniless and forgotten.”