“In other words, Daniel, if you speak the truth about Claire Bennett and your sons, you will be left with nothing.”

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half-hour, its heavy brass pendulum swinging behind the glass.

I looked at the portrait of my father hanging above the fireplace.

His painted eyes seemed to look down on me with the same cold calculation he had used in life.

“He set a trap for me,” I whispered.

“He set a safeguard,” Croft said. “He wanted to ensure that the secrets of the past stayed in the past.”

“And you helped him draw up these papers,” I said, glare fixed on the attorney.

“I did my job, Daniel,” Croft said. “My loyalty is to the Whitmore estate, as it has been for forty years.”

He picked up his glass of scotch and took another small sip.

“You have a comfortable life,” he continued, setting the glass down.

“Your sons have everything they could ever need.”

“They don’t have their mother,” I said, my voice cracking.

“They have a housekeeper who is currently lying in a hospital bed,” Croft said coldly.