The cold, grey light of the cemetery leached all warmth from the day, casting long, skeletal shadows from the rows of headstones. The air smelled of damp earth and cut flowers gone slightly to rot. It was a fitting stage for the final unraveling of the Helwart family.

Aunt Lydia stood facing Nancy Helwart, the two women a study in contrasting fury. Lydia’s was hot, righteous, and worn on her sleeve. Nancy’s was a cold, calculated thing, simmering beneath a polished veneer that was now ...