“That’s a lovely piece,” I whispered. “Silver tarnishes so quickly, though.”

Vanessa’s smirk faltered. Grant frowned, confused by the absence of hysteria.

We entered the courtroom.

Judge Harold Whitmore, a man with a stern face and tired eyes, took the bench. My court-appointed attorney — a man who’d met me exactly once and seemed bored by the whole thing — sat beside me.

Grant’s high-priced litigator stood and painted a tragic picture of a brilliant mind shattered by grief. He spoke of my “erratic behavior,” my “detachment from reality,” and Grant’s “heroic” efforts to save the company and manage my care.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer concluded, “for her own safety, and for the preservation of her estate, we ask that Mr. Mercer be granted permanent conservatorship and full durable power of attorney.”