“Your husband built an airtight vault around you, Frances,” Mr.

Bradley said gently.

“The will was never meant to give you anything.

It was meant to draw Shirley out into the open, where whatever she tried to do could be seen and documented.

And from what you’ve told me about yesterday morning —” he nodded at my purse, where my phone held its photographs — “she has done exactly that.”

Then I opened the small white envelope, and found the last piece, the one that would end it.

Chapter 22 — Forty Years