Gareth was in a holding cell, but her expression was as calm as if she were attending a charity gala.

“The police have Gareth,” I said.

“Gareth is a fool,” Eleanor said, her tone flat. “But he is my son. And family matters are settled within the family.”

She didn’t blink.

“Open the door, Madeline. Let us not make a scene for your neighbors.”

I hesitated, my mind running through the risks.

But I needed to know exactly what she was offering, and more importantly, how she intended to pay it.

I closed the door slightly, slid the chain out of its brass track, and opened it fully.

Eleanor stepped into my small foyer.

She brought the scent of expensive French perfume and the cold night air with her.

She looked around my modest living room, her eyes lingering on the worn fabric of the armchair and the framed photos of Clara on the mantel.

A faint, patronizing smile touched her lips.

“You have lived very modestly since you left the state attorney’s office,” she said.