He had been weak, his voice barely a whisper in the hospital bed, but his mind had remained sharp.

He had talked about the estate, about the land, and about the things we had lost when we were young.

“There has to be a key,” Victoria said, reaching out to touch the iron door. “We’ll break it open. Charles, get a crowbar from the garage.”

“You can’t do that,” I said, stepping between her and the safe. “This is still my home for the next forty-eight hours. You touch that wall, and I’ll call the sheriff.”

Victoria laughed, a harsh, dry sound.

“The sheriff is my husband’s cousin, Eleanor,” she said. “He won’t do a thing for a squatter.”

“I am his widow,” I said, my voice rising. “And this house still holds his wishes.”

Charles looked away, his face turning a deeper shade of red.

“Just leave it, Victoria,” Charles muttered. “We don’t need to break it. If she doesn’t have the key, we’ll find it. It has to be in the house.”

“It’s not in the house,” I said, though I didn’t know that for sure.