The warmth of the bl00d against my palms was the first thing that anchored me to reality.

Marcus had advised against the meeting.

He had not advised against bringing his junior associate, a quiet woman named Grace Okafor, who had waited in a parked car across the street with a directional microphone and a digital recorder while I stood in Catherine's living room.

Illinois was a one-party consent state.

I had consented.

Grace called me before I reached the corner.

"I got it," she said.

"The Hargrove property reference.

The threat about Preston.

All of it."

"Is it clean?"

"Clean enough." A pause.

"She's going to move fast now.

She knows you know."

"Then we move faster."

Marcus filed the protective motion on the trust that afternoon.

By the following morning, a copy of Diane's statement, Sophie's written account — taken down by Marcus himself, in language a child would use, signed by Sophie with her careful, looping signature — and a transcript of the recording were in the hands of the Cook County State's Attorney's office.

The charge that followed was not dramatic.

It arrived as paperwork, the way most justice does.

Fraud.

Theft by deception.

Conspiracy to commit financial fraud in connection with the Vance Family Trust.

Catherine was arrested on a Tuesday.

I was in Marcus's office when Grace called with the news.

"They executed the warrant this morning," Grace said.

"Her attorney is already asking for a continuance."

"Did they find the diamond?"

"In a safety deposit box registered under her maiden name.

Hargrove." A brief pause.

"It was still in the original brooch setting.

She hadn't sold it yet."

I looked out Marcus's window at the lake.

Flat and silver, the way it always was.

"The trust distribution," I said.

"Protective motion was granted this morning, thirty minutes before the arrest," Marcus said from across the desk.

"The December distribution proceeds as written.

Catherine has no standing to contest it."

I nodded.

I didn't say anything for a moment.

"Evelyn." Marcus's voice was careful.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," I said.

And then, because it was true and I wanted to say it out loud to another person: "I'm angry that it took this long.

I'm angry that Sophie has four stitches.

I'm angry that my parents stood in that ballroom and didn't move." I looked at him.

"But yes.

I'm all right."

He held my gaze.

"For what it's worth — what you did in that townhouse took nerve.

Most people would have led with the lawsuit.

You let her talk."

"She needed to feel like she was winning," I said.

"People say the most honest things when they think they're winning."

He almost smiled.

"I'm going to remember that."

I picked up my bag.

I had to get back to Sophie.

She had a follow-up appointment at three, and she had made me promise to stop for hot chocolate afterward, and I had every intention of keeping that promise.

But at the door, I stopped.

There was still one thing unresolved.