People whispered about Malcolm’s wealth and waited for him to grow too weak to protect it. His grown nieces spoke of inheritances rather than affection, and his former colleagues watched him with polished smiles but ruthless intentions. Even staff had betrayed him before, sneaking away silver trinkets or bottles of expensive wine. Malcolm had begun to believe that every person would grab what they could if their actions went unseen.

Outside the library, rain hammered against stained glass. Inside, the fire crackled in a patient sort of way. On a walnut table by his chair, Malcolm placed an open envelope thick with bills. Five thousand dollars. He wanted the bait to look tempting and misplaced. Then he waited.