I started the engine, the heater blowing cold air before slowly warming up.

The drive back to the Whitmore estate was quiet.

The wet asphalt reflected the red taillights of the cars ahead of me.

My mind was spinning with what Claire had told me, and what Ruth had said on the phone.

Mr. Croft was waiting for me.

He had been my father’s personal attorney for over thirty years.

He knew every secret, every offshore account, and apparently, every lie.

I turned the car down the long, winding driveway of the estate.

The bare branches of the oak trees reached over the gravel like dark fingers against the grey sky.

The grand stone house loomed ahead, its windows dark except for the warm glow of the library on the first floor.

I parked the car and stepped out into the rain.

I did not run.

I walked slowly to the front door, feeling the weight of the key in my hand.

I unlocked the door and stepped into the grand foyer.

The house was completely silent.