had nearly stopped Camille’s heart when she first saw it.
Leona had installed the camera above the pantry after telling Camille that someone was moving papers in her desk. Camille had forgotten about it until she found a memory card taped beneath the drawer of Leona’s sewing table. Most of the footage showed nothing but moonlight, a cat from next door, and Leona making tea in her robe.
Then came Helena.
Midnight. Three nights before Leona’s fatal stroke.
Helena stood at the desk in Leona’s kitchen, one hand inside the locked drawer, the other holding a stack of envelopes. On the counter beside her lay the brass key to Leona’s firebox, the key everyone believed had been lost.
Magistrate Rowe’s expression changed so slightly that only Helena seemed to notice.
‘Where did you get that?’ Helena whispered.
Not ‘what is that?’
Where.
A tiny current moved through the room.
Aunt Celeste lowered her tissue.
Drew stopped rocking his foot.
Peter’s watch flashed as his hand tightened on the rail.
Camille glanced at the wall clock.
Two minutes.
Magistrate Rowe studied the bank record next. ‘Mrs. Vale, did you transfer funds to an account belonging to a relative of Marisol Keene?’
Helena recovered quickly. Too quickly. ‘I would need to review that document. I pay many people. Housekeepers, caregivers, contractors. After Leona’s death, everything was chaos.’
‘This transfer predates Mrs. Hartwell’s death by eight days.’
The room chilled.
Helena’s jaw tightened.
Camille saw the ring finger begin to tap against the table.
Lie coming.
‘I do not recall,’ Helena said.
The hallway outside filled with footsteps.
Not the light tapping of a late clerk.
Heavy steps. Several people. A radio crackling low.
Helena turned her head.
The doors opened.
Marisol Keene stepped inside wearing a gray raincoat, her face pale and bare of makeup. She held a leather appointment book against her chest like a shield. Behind her stood a deputy and Mr. Sutter, the marina manager, rain shining on the shoulders of his brown suit.
For one naked second, Helena looked old.
Not elegant. Not wounded. Not in control.
Old and afraid.
Marisol looked at her and said, ‘I am done lying for you.’
Magistrate Rowe ordered everyone seated. The deputy remained by the door. Mr. Sutter stood beside him with both hands folded, looking like a man who would rather be repairing dock lines than standing in a courthouse.
Marisol approached the clerk’s table.
‘I work at Lakebridge Behavioral Clinic,’ she said. ‘I am not a doctor. I am not licensed to diagnose anyone. I never met Camille Vale before last month, and I never evaluated her.’
Aunt Celeste whispered, ‘Oh my Lord.’
Helena snapped, ‘Your Honor, this is theatrics.’
Magistrate Rowe did not look away from Marisol. ‘Continue.’
Marisol opened her appointment book. Her hands shook so badly the pages fluttered. ‘Mrs. Vale contacted me through my brother. She said she needed an intake letter for insurance purposes. She provided personal details about Miss Vale and asked me to create a preliminary form. Later, she changed the wording to make it appear diagnostic. She offered eight thousand dollars and threatened to report my mother if I refused.’
‘Your mother?’ Magistrate Rowe asked.
Marisol swallowed. ‘Her residency renewal had a clerical issue. Mrs. Vale knew. She said things happen
