Deborah lowered herself back into her chair as though her legs had stopped obeying her. The number still hung in the air, forty-two million dollars, and beside it now sat the bank record documenting the one hundred and ten thousand she had drained from my father’s account nine days after his heart stopped. “That withdrawal,” my attorney continued calmly, “was made using a financial power of attorney that expired the instant Russell Marsh died. Legally, every dollar taken after that moment belongs to the estate, not to you.” Deborah’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. She had spent so long certain the money was the prize, and she had never once imagined it could become the evidence.

I finally spoke, for the first time since we had entered that conference room. “The funeral cost eleven thousand,” I said quietly. “You withdrew one hundred and ten. That leaves ninety-nine thousand dollars you cannot account for, taken with authority you no longer had, from a dead man’s account.” Deborah looked at me the way she had looked at me for twenty years, as though I were an inconvenience to be managed. But the look did not work anymore. Brynn, sitting beside her, had gone pale, glancing between her mother and the bank record. My aunt Coralie, in the corner, gave the smallest nod. Russell prepared everything, she had whispered at the funeral. Now I understood exactly how completely he had.