A black car was waiting at the curb.

Marcus, my driver, stood by the rear door with a large black umbrella.

He saw me and opened the door immediately.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Vale,” Marcus said.

He did not use the name Hartwell.

He knew.

“Thank you, Marcus,” I said.

I got into the back seat, the leather smelling of clean wool and lavender.

Lydia slid in beside me, pulling her briefcase onto her lap.

“Where to first?” she asked.

“The office,” I said. “I want to be there when the locks are changed.”

The drive through Newport was quiet.

The ocean was a dark, churning green against the grey rocks of the shore.

The grand houses along Bellevue Avenue stood like silent stone monuments behind their wrought-iron gates.

I looked out the window, watching the water drip from the bare branches of the oak trees.

For three generations, my family had built this town.

My grandfather had laid the stone foundations of the harbor docks.

My father had built the library and the bank.

And Carter had thought he could take it all with a few forged signatures and a cheap lie.