And the next morning, a framed photograph of Colleen on the piano had disappeared.
By the twelfth day, Emmett’s forensic accountant had found the first financial fracture: a limited liability company Grant had opened eighteen months earlier. Money had been moved from joint accounts in increments small enough to avoid attention. The totals were staggering. A condominium downtown titled in Vivian’s name. Monthly payments labeled consulting fees. Eighty-five thousand dollars—Colleen’s inheritance from her father—shifted without any signed authorization.
“That’s theft,” Dorothy said.
“That,” Emmett replied, “is the beginning.”
When Grant asked Dorothy over breakfast on the fourteenth morning to consider going home because “the babies need routine, and your grief is making the atmosphere difficult,” she nearly admired the timing.
Almost.
She set down her fork. “Of course,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll pack.”
Grant blinked, surprised by how easy it was.
He had mistaken composure for surrender.
Dorothy moved into a hotel three miles away that afternoon.
Within forty-eight hours, Vivian Holloway moved into the guesthouse behind Birchwood Lane.