My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

“A cedar chest. My mother’s. It was here the last time I stayed over.”

“When was that?”

“November.”

Diana’s voice floated up from the hall before I even saw her. “If you’re about to accuse me of stealing some old blanket box, don’t embarrass yourself.”

I stepped into the doorway. “Where is it?”

She looked me over, cool again now that shock had begun hardening into offense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The cedar chest in that closet.”

Madeline, at the far end of the hall, glanced away too quickly.

I saw it.

I saw it in the exact flicker of her face: guilt first, then annoyance at having displayed it.

I turned to her. “Madeline.”

“What?”

“You know where it is.”

Her arms folded tighter. “I don’t.”

“You just looked at the floor.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means you know.”

Diana stepped between us. “Stop interrogating my daughter.”

The older officer, who had come up the stairs at some point I hadn’t noticed, said, “If property belonging to the homeowner has been removed, that’s relevant.”

Diana laughed sharply. “A sentimental storage chest is not a criminal emergency.”