Fergus frowned.

“Steal?

What are you talking about?”

I reached into my bag and took out a sealed manila envelope, yellowed, my name across the front in my father’s faint, careful hand.

“Dad gave me this three days before he died.” My mother’s face lost all its color.

“Don’t open that.” “Why not?” “Because you’re confused.” I lifted the envelope.

“Dad found the financial trail on the Beacon Hill property.” Fergus looked around.

“What property?” “The historic Boston brownstone my grandmother left directly to me, in a minor’s trust, when I was twelve,” I said.