“Your husband was a junior partner who died thirty years ago, Patricia,” Thomas said.

He picked up a black fountain pen and placed it inside his pocket.

“The Hartwell trust has never belonged to your family.”

Juliette stepped back, her heels clicking loudly on the wood.

“You lied to me,” she said to Mark.

“You told me she was just a placeholder until the probate cleared.”

Mark looked at her, his face turning a dark, angry red.

“You wanted the apartment, Juliette,” he said. “You didn’t care where the lease came from.”

“Because you said it was yours!” she screamed.

The man in the grey suit tapped his tablet once, the screen glowing in the dim light near the door.

He looked at Thomas and nodded.

“The transfers have been flagged,” the man said.

Mark’s phone stopped buzzing, then immediately began to ring again.

The screen lit up with the name of his bank’s compliance director.

The blue light cast a cold shadow across the music rack of the piano.

I took a deep breath, the scent of old wood and dry paper filling my lungs.