“You’re making a mistake,” she said, though her old certainty had weakened.

“No,” I replied. “I made the mistake years ago, when I let you believe my silence was permission.”

Chapter 9 — Her Own Words

The temporary hearing was held in a courtroom that smelled faintly of coffee and printer toner. Thatcher sat with his attorney on one side. Beatrix sat behind him in the gallery in navy, her mouth a thin line.

She hadn’t been permitted to speak, which clearly frustrated her.

I sat beside Winslow with Sabina’s hospital records, the parenting timeline, the household financial documents, and copies of Beatrix’s messages to the staff.

The judge was a woman in her fifties, gray at the temples, with the patient expression of someone who understood that disputes over family wealth often sound more civilized than they are.