It was a cold and gloomy Saturday evening when the old grandfather clock slowly struck nine. After the last chime had died away, the parlor fell silent. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the somber ticking of the clock, and the soft, rhythmic creak of Vivianne's antique rocker, her favorite chair in her favorite place to think.

Although Vivianne had tried to hide it from her niece, she was deeply troubled. The money she had inherited from her parent's estate and the little ...