The chandelier light caught the edges of Victoria Langford’s platinum cuff, turning every cut diamond into a tiny needle of white fire.

The Moretti estate in Lake Geneva was not a house; it was a compound built of gray limestone and bullet-resistant glass, set behind three miles of black wrought-iron fencing that followed the curve of the lake shore like an iron spine.

The car—a long, black Mercedes with windows so dark the sunrise looked like twilight—had passed through two separate security gates where men with dogs and earpieces checked the undercarriage with mirrors on long poles. Emma had spent the entire ninety-minute drive pressed against the leather door, her canvas tote bag clutched between her ankles, watching the cornfields of McHenry County give way to the heavy, dark woods of southern Wisconsin.

When the car finally stopped in the circular motor court, the front doors of the main house opened before the engine had even died.

Isabella Moretti was already there.

She wasn't in the wheelchair now. She was sitting in a high-backed wing chair in the center of the limestone foyer, wrapped in a blanket of pale gray cashmere that had replaced the tattered cardigan from the Drake. Two women in crisp navy-blue nursing scrubs were standing three paces behind her, their hands folded, their faces stiff with the professional neutrality of hospital staff who were paid twenty percent over market rate to ask zero questions.

As Emma stepped across the threshold, her worn sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished slate floor, Isabella’s head turned.

The old woman didn't smile—half her face was still partially frozen from the stroke she had suffered four months earlier—but her right eye widened. She lifted her good hand, her crooked fingers beckoning Emma forward with quick, sharp jerks.

"You," Isabella rasped. "The bread girl."

"Emma, ma'am," Emma said, stopping two feet from the chair. She didn't know whether to curtsy, shake hands, or back away. In Bridgeport, when an old Italian lady called you from her porch, you went and took the grocery bag from her arms, so Emma simply took three steps closer and knelt down on the slate so she was at eye level.

Isabella reached out. Her thumb, rough and dry as tree bark, touched the white gauze taped around Emma’s hand.

"The Langford girl," Isabella said, her speech thick, the vowels slurring slightly around the left side of her tongue. "Her grandmother was a thief. Stole three thousand dollars from the parish altar guild in fifty-six. Bought a mink stole with it. Told everyone it was a gift from her uncle in Boston."

A sudden, sharp snort came from the top of the sweeping stone staircase.

Emma looked up.

Vincent Moretti was coming down the steps, wearing an unbuttoned blue linen shirt and dark trousers, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all, but his eyes were clear, cold, and entirely focused.

"She’s right, you know," Vincent said, reaching the bottom landing. "The Langford family has been laundering bad behavior through the Catholic Charities ledger since the Eisenhower administration. My mother kept the receipts in a biscuit tin under her mattress for forty years."

"Still have them," Isabella muttered, her fingers tightening around Emma’s wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong, like a dry vine that had grown into a stone wall. "Vincent. Give her the room on the third floor. The one with the balcony. She smells like soap. Not like the other ones. The other ones smelled like vinegar and fear."

One of the nurses behind the chair—a woman with graying hair and a sharp, narrow nose—cleared her throat with quiet authority.

"Mr. Moretti, the physical therapist from Milwaukee is scheduled for eight-thirty. Mrs. Moretti needs her blood pressure medication and forty minutes of motor-skill exercises before the light gets too bright. We really shouldn't deviate from the clinical protocol."

Vincent didn't look at the nurse. He looked at Emma.

"Miss Carter," he said. "Does my mother look like she wants to do motor-skill exercises?"

Emma looked at the old woman. Isabella’s chin was set like an iron anvil; her good hand hadn't released Emma’s wrist, and her breath was coming in short, irritated puffs through her nose.

"She looks like she wants a cup of tea," Emma said honestly.

"Can you make tea?" Vincent asked.

"I’ve been making it for my dad since I was seven," Emma said. "Red Rose. Two spoons of clover honey, one slice of lemon with the peel left on so it doesn't get bitter."

Isabella let out a low, triumphant hiss. "See? She knows. These hospital women give me hot water that smells like paper bags."

"The kitchen is through the archway to the left, Miss Carter," Vincent said, turning back toward the stairs. "Mrs. Danvers will show you where the honey is kept. And Miss Carter?"

Emma paused, her hand still resting near Isabella’s knee. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"

"Your receipts were delivered to Racine Avenue twenty minutes ago," he said, not turning around. "Your father signed for them. Mark said he was sitting on the front porch with a cup of instant coffee, looking at the Mercy Hospital stamp as if he were trying to read Greek."

A weight that Emma hadn't even realized she was carrying—a physical pressure behind her breastbone that had been there since her mother died five years ago—suddenly broke. Her shoulders dropped three inches.