Rosalind crossed to her closet.
Her pearl-blue mother-of-the-groom gown had been slashed to ribbons.
Her jewelry box was empty.
Later, the estate’s security logs would show that someone had disarmed the master alarm at 3:12 that morning, using a guest pass.
And Edith, her housekeeper of thirty years, confessed through tears: “Mrs.
Ashworth… I saw Miss Portia leaving your wing early this morning.
I assumed you’d given her permission.”
Rosalind sat on the edge of the bed.
For a few unbearable minutes she was only what they wanted her to be — an old, widowed, humiliated woman, betrayed inside her own home.
Then she lifted her chin.