Celeste was still in the library, guarded by a deputy while the detectives finished their paperwork.

We walked down the long corridor toward the library.

The oak floorboards groaned under our weight.

When we entered, Celeste was sitting on the leather sofa.

She looked remarkably composed, her hands folded in her lap.

Only the slight tremor in her chin betrayed her anger.

“Alexander,” she said, her voice smooth.

“It is over, Celeste,” he said.

“You have nothing on me,” she said. “A disgruntled former employee making accusations is not evidence.”

“We have the video from his phone,” I said, stepping forward.

“The video showing him with the key to the safe, sent to my number.”

Celeste looked at me, her eyes narrowing into thin slits.

“You are a maid, Elena,” she spat. “A glorified servant who scrubs floors.”

“She is the person who kept my son safe while you plotted to ruin this family,” Alexander said.

The lead detective, a heavy-set man named Miller, stepped into the room.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” Miller said. “We have enough to transport her.”

“Take her,” Alexander said.

Celeste stood up slowly.