“You’re welcome to dial 911,” Harrison said, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. “Vivian’s autopsy confirms natural causes. Your threats of litigation are frivolous extortion.”

“Extortion?” Mark exploded, leaping up, spit flying. “I’m the eldest son! That money is mine! You’re nothing but a gold-digging maid!”

I opened my purse. I didn’t pull out the ledger. I pulled out a small black remote and aimed it at the television on the wall — the one wired to my smart-home system.

“Before you build a fantasy where you’re the victims,” I said softly, “I suggest you listen to your own history.”

I pressed play.

The screen stayed black, but crisp audio filled the room — a recording from three months ago, captured by the kitchen camera.