Rosalind rose, smoothing her lapels in quick jerky motions, and hissed that I had planned this, that I was a calculating opportunist who only wanted the family money.

The money is already gone, Rosalind, I said.

And your son is the one who took it.

Rowena walked down the aisle, her steps slow but deliberate, her eyes never leaving her brother.

“I was in Lisbon,” she said, her voice growing stronger with each step, “because you sent nine thousand dollars every month to keep me there, under a false name.” Karina raised her tablet so the first ten rows could see the high-resolution scans, and in her clear professional voice named what they were: the loan guarantee for four hundred and twelve thousand dollars, the signature forged, and the gray ledger recovered from the false panel, detailing the systematic draining of Rowena Duncan’s trust over nine years, more than three million dollars moved while its owner sat in a clinic she was told she could never leave.

A low murmur rippled through four hundred people turning to their neighbors at once.