The heavy wrought-iron security gate at the front of the Carter estate began its slow mechanical swing closed, its iron wheels grinding along the concrete track.

Had Bradley Collins written those fraudulent guardianship papers himself, or had he just stood by while Richard signed them?

I took one long stride out onto the public sidewalk just as the two iron gates came together with a heavy metallic clunk, sealing the dark mansion grounds off behind me in the deepening autumn dusk.

At eight the next morning, Arthur Vance set two heavy ceramic mugs down on his dining table.

He wiped his thin wire-rimmed glasses with a cloth, put them on, and pushed a bound black binder across the polished oak.