Chapter 6

The funeral was at noon on a Saturday, four days before the hearing the bank had scheduled. The deceased was an elderly uncle, Helen's mother's brother, a man Helen had seen once in the past decade. She attended because it was expected, because grief was a family language, and because she'd learned long ago that showing up was the only thing that mattered at funerals.

She had not expected Chloe to be there. But there she was, in the third pew, dressed in black with her hair in a severe twist, her manicured hands folded in her lap. Marcus sat beside her, looking pale and uncomfortable. Chloe's fingers were wrapped in a light bandage, Helen noticed — the burn from the fire pit, still healing.

Helen moved to the back of the church and stood by the door, waiting to pay her respects without making a scene. She'd spoken to Sergeant Hobart the previous day. He had confirmed that the signature card had been submitted for handwriting analysis, and that the note Margaret had left was being treated as a witness statement. He'd said, carefully, that he'd spoken to Chloe informally — that she had denied everything, that she'd said Helen was trying to frame her to avoid paying for the bag.

"The bag," Helen had repeated. "She's still talking about the bag."

"That, plus the life insurance policy, plus a hundred thousand dollars in investments that went missing from your portfolio last year."

Helen's blood had gone cold. "What investments?"

"Your financial advisor flagged it. A withdrawal in March of last year, signed electronically. The funds were transferred to an account that closed in December. Your advisor says he called you about it, but you never returned his calls."