Claire, is Mark actually in Chicago? A friend of mine just saw him at the airport with some blonde girl. This has to be a mistake, right?

His sloppy lies were already hemorrhaging.

Hours earlier, at the memorial, his Uncle Richard — reeking of stale beer and cheap cologne — had barked that a funeral without the eldest son present was a disgrace, and that I’d clearly failed to reach him.

They’d crucified me, all of them, with no idea the man they defended was drinking cocktails with his mistress while his mother’s body cooled.

Chapter 3 — The Lockbox

The next morning, in a conservative navy suit, I walked into a quiet brick office downtown.

The brass plate read Attorney Harrison. He was the solemn, elegant man who’d approached me after the abusive relatives dispersed at the funeral, the one who’d recognized me as the daughter Vivian never had.