Parked on the gravel driveway inside the gate was a large, white moving van.

Two men in gray uniforms were loading a cedar chest into the back of the truck.

“That is my mother’s chest,” I said, my voice rising. “They are clearing it out already.”

“Stay in the car, Eleanor,” Arthur said.

He honked the horn once, the sound echoing loudly through the wet trees.

The side door of the mansion opened, and a figure emerged onto the stone veranda.

It was Victoria, wearing a long beige trench coat that trailed behind her.

She held a clipboard in one hand, protected by a black umbrella.

Beside her, Charles stepped out, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his collar turned up against the rain.

They walked down the gravel driveway toward the gate, their faces set in hard, stony lines.

Victoria stopped at the barrier, looking down at the Buick with cold amusement.

I rolled down my window, the cool rain spraying across my cheek.

“You have no right to be here, Eleanor,” Victoria called out over the wind.