“The iron bars don’t suit you, Emelia. But then again, I don’t think you ever intended to be on this side of the glass.”

Celeste sat on the cold, plastic chair of the visitation room, the sterile scent of floor wax and industrial detergent stinging her nostrils. It was a far cry from the lavender and expensive beeswax that defined the Aldridge mansion. Across from her, separated by a thick pane of reinforced glass, sat the woman who had once held the strings to everyone’s lives.

Emelia Aldridge looked different. The pristine, silver-grey hair was no longer perfectly coiffed; it was pulled back in a utilitarian knot. The designer suits...