They’d crucified me on behalf of a man who was drinking margaritas with his mistress.

The next morning, in a navy suit, I walked into a quiet brick office building downtown. The brass plate read Attorney Harrison. He was the solemn, elegant man who had come up to me after the relatives dispersed at the funeral, recognizing me as the daughter Margaret never had.

“I’m glad you came, Elena,” he said, showing me into an office that smelled of old leather and lemon oil.

I unwrapped the silver key from my handkerchief and set it on his desk. Without a word he took a wooden lockbox out of his safe.

My hands shook as I turned the key. Click.

Inside was a thick envelope with my name on it, a notarized document, and a navy bank passbook. I unfolded the heavy paper first.