house and open the cabinet in my sewing room. The brass key opens what matters.
I hurried to Marianne’s house.
The front door was half open. Garbage bags covered the porch, stuffed with silk and lace I recognized immediately—gowns Marianne had spent decades sewing by hand.
A man stepped outside carrying another bag and looked me over with disgust.
“You must be the con artist,” he said. “Bold of you to show your face.”
“I’m not here for money.”
“That’s good. Because there isn’t any for you.”
I climbed the
