Juliette looked at Thomas Bell, her eyes wide with sudden terror.

“The monthly allowance,” she whispered. “The accounts he used for the gallery.”

Thomas did not look up from his papers.

“Every asset associated with the Hartwell estate remains solely under Claire’s name,” he said.

“Any unauthorized distributions are a matter of legal record.”

Juliette’s hand dropped to her side.

She looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the wind rattling the high glass panes.

I felt the weight of the small, cold object in my coat pocket.

My fingers brushed against the cold metal of the brass key I had found in my mother’s desk.

It was heavy, its edges worn smooth by years of handling.

Mark looked up, his gaze shifting from the phone to me.

“You played us,” he said, his voice flat.

“I did nothing,” I said. “My mother simply knew who you were.”

Patricia stepped between us, her chin tilted high.

“This is an absurdity,” she said to Thomas. “My husband built the partnership that kept this estate solvent.”