The footsteps on the wet gravel outside were heavy and deliberate.

No one in the foyer moved to open the door.

The silence inside was so thick I could hear the hum of the sub-zero refrigerator in the kitchen.

Graham’s gaze shifted from the vibrating phone in his hand to the front door, then back to me.

“Arden,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “What is this?”

“You always assumed my grandfather left me nothing but the oil paintings and the silver in the dining room,” I said.

I tapped the edge of the leather-bound notebook against my palm.

“You thought his estate was depleted by the medical bills at the end.”

Bianca took a step backward, her heels clicking softly on the limestone floor.

She looked at Graham, her eyes wide, searching his face for an explanation he couldn’t give.

“He didn’t believe in putting everything in one basket, Graham,” I continued.

“He founded Bluebell Lane Capital in 1978.”

“It was a private, non-registered holding entity before the modern disclosure laws took effect.”

“When he died, the shares transferred directly to a blind trust in my name.”