“That is not true,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

She looked toward the tall windows, where the gray afternoon light was fading.

The room was growing cold as the sun dipped below the tree line.

“The board at the foundation would ruin us,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“They should,” I said. “You belong in a cell.”

She stood up quickly, her knees knocking against the tea table.

The silver service rattled again.

“We can settle this,” she said, her hands trembling.

“There is nothing to settle,” I replied.

“No, listen to me,” she said, stepping closer.

Her eyes were wide now, stripped of their usual arrogance.

“I will talk to Mark,” she said. “We will give you the house.”

“The house is already mine,” I said. “You stole it.”

“We will sign over the estate, the trust, everything,” she pleaded.

She reached out to grab my arm, but I stepped back.

“Just keep the police out of this,” she whispered. “No public scandal.”

She looked desperately at the manila envelope.

“Think of the Hartwell name, Claire. Your mother’s legacy would be dragged through the mud.”