The next day, the rain had stopped, leaving the Texas air crisp and cool.

I parked my SUV across the street from the Highland Park estate at eleven-fifteen.

The house was a massive brick Georgian manor with tall white columns and a manicured lawn.

Two moving vans were parked at the curb, their diesel engines idling loudly.

Behind them sat a white sheriff’s department cruiser.

Marcus stood by the passenger side of my car, waiting for me to step out.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Ralston?” he asked.

“I am,” I said, checking my watch. “It is eleven-thirty.”

We walked up the long stone pathway to the front double doors.

I pressed the brass doorbell, but there was no sound from inside.

I knocked firmly three times.

After a long minute, the heavy door creaked open.

Gloria stood in the entryway, looking older than I had ever seen her.

She wasn’t wearing her usual designer suit or her pearls.

She was in a faded chenille robe, her gray hair unwashed and pinned up loosely.

“What do you want?” she spat, though her voice lacked its usual venom.