The second recording was silent footage from the storage room, dated November 19. Brody carrying Grandpa Harold’s silver chest out the back door at 2:14 a.m. while my mother held the flashlight. The third was worse. Audio from Grandma’s own study, three days earlier. Mom and Dad sitting at her desk with a notary, discussing a power of attorney they planned to have her sign after the party, “when she’s tired and happy.” Then Dad’s voice, clearly: “The buyer’s coming tonight. Make sure Juliet doesn’t get in. She’ll recognize his name from the file.”

That was the reason there was no room. Not the capacity. Not the list. The man in the gray suit by the fireplace was the developer whose purchase offer I had seen in my work queue. He had been invited to walk the property on Christmas Eve, and my mother knew I would recognize him the moment I walked through the door. He set down his drink, apologized to Grandma, and left without his coat. Ninety guests watched him go.