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.

The older officer came up the stairs and joined us. “If property belonging to the homeowner has been removed, that is a relevant matter,” he said.

Victoria laughed sharply and shook her head. “A sentimental storage chest is hardly a criminal emergency,” she argued.

“No, but concealment of a beneficiary’s property can create legal trouble,” Lydia noted. “I suspect it will sound very ugly when spoken slowly in a courtroom,” Lydia added.

Cassandra’s bravado began to waver under the pressure. “Where is it, Cassandra?” I asked again.

“It is in the garage,” she finally admitted. Victoria snapped around and glared at her daughter.

“Cassandra, be quiet,” she ordered. “What does it matter?” Cassandra burst out.

“You said she wasn’t coming back and that Dad was going to sell the place anyway,” she shouted. The hallway went completely still as the words hung in the air.

Even Victoria seemed to realize what had just been said in front of the police. “Sell the place?” Lydia asked with a sharpened gaze.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Cassandra whispered. “You did,” I said softly.