“And you, Patricia, are currently named as a co-conspirator in the financial audit we submitted to the district attorney yesterday,” Thomas added.

Patricia’s face drained of what little color she had left.

She looked like a statue carved from gray stone.

“A co-conspirator?” she repeated. “I didn’t sign anything.”

“You accepted three wire transfers from the Hartwell medical trust into your personal account,” Thomas said. “We have the bank routing numbers.”

Patricia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

She looked at me, her eyes pleading.

“Claire, please,” she said. “I’m an old woman. I can’t go to jail.”

“You should have thought of that before you helped him,” I said.

The wind blew another draft through the open door, bringing the smell of damp earth inside.

I walked past her into the dining room.

The table was set for tea, just as it had been when I arrived.

A silver tray held a plate of lemon scones that had gone cold.

Beside the tray was a leather folder belonging to Mark.

I reached out and opened it.

Inside were architectural drawings of the carriage house.