“You have exactly what I allow you to have, Clara.

Nothing more.”

That card is linked to the florist and the caterer, I said.

“The vendors will bill my office directly from now on.” The window slid up, sealing him in the warm leather cabin, and the rear tires kicked up wet gravel as he cleared the gates.

I walked back toward the carriage house to gather my forensic journals, and found the wooden door propped wide with a brass wedge and two men in blue canvas shirts carrying my cardboard storage boxes out to a white van on the grass.

Rosalind stood in the center of the small living room, smoothing her lapels.