Arthur Vance leaned over the stained linen and handed me the master key fob.

By nine o’clock the next morning, Arthur Vance had four copies of the surrender agreement spread across the living room coffee table.

Victoria sat on the edge of the cream velvet sofa with her hands flat on her knees.

The gold-framed portrait of Walter behind her caught the morning sun, throwing a pale light across her narrow shoulders.

“The terms are standard for an irrevocable trust takeover,” Vance said, tapping his heavy brass pen against his open binder.

“You have thirty days from noon today to clear your personal belongings out of the main house.”