Christopher was not in the house.

He had left early, as he did most mornings, confident that his uncle lay upstairs as helpless as he had always been.

That confidence was the thing we were counting on.

My hands were not quite steady as I hurried down and opened the heavy front gate, and they came in, one after another: an elderly, dignified gentleman carrying a thick leather folder, followed by a younger legal associate, then two private investigators with watchful eyes, and finally two uniformed law enforcement officers, who introduced themselves to me properly before they stepped into the grand foyer.

The older gentleman was Harrison Vance, who had served as Raymond’s personal attorney for more than twenty years, the very man whose number Raymond had dictated to me digit by digit.