My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

Attorney Lydia Thorne got out of her own car at almost the same moment, looking smooth and composed in a charcoal wool coat. Her silver hair was pinned back in a neat twist that had survived the two hour drive from Philadelphia without losing a single strand.

She closed her door with quiet precision and did not even glance at me as she walked toward the porch. “Good morning,” Lydia said with a voice that was as sharp as a winter frost.

Victoria straightened her back and tightened her grip on the railing. “Who exactly are you, and why are you on my property?” Victoria asked with a trembling voice.

“I am Lydia Thorne, and I serve as legal counsel for Audrey Sinclair,” the lawyer replied as she took another step up the walk. “Unless there has been a very unusual change in trust law overnight, you are currently standing on property held in trust for my client.”

The two police officers who had been speaking near the cruiser turned toward us with sudden interest. One was an older man with a face lined by years of sun and wind, while the younger one looked cautious about the escalating situation.