“You’re letting an extortionist squat on my brother’s estate,” Gene said.

Cole opened his car door without replying and pulled out into the street.

Gene glared through his windshield, slammed his truck into reverse, and backed out onto Birch Street so fast his tires sprayed dry gravel against the wooden fence.

Claire drew a slow breath, her right hand rising to touch the crescent scar under her chin.

“We have to go to the county vault tomorrow morning,” Claire said.

At half past nine the next morning, Arlene Vance met us beneath the concrete arches of the Oak Creek Courthouse.