But Camilla was also a matriarch accustomed to taking charge, a woman who compelled people to obey. She was adamant that I go upstairs with her, so much so that Tim didn’t object. He tried not to stare at the gauze on my hand. Tim knew better than to ask what happened in front of our witnesses.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I told her, “but I’m fine.” Five minutes, if that. My window of opportunity with Jade’s phone was closing.

Camilla sighed, gripped her cane, and stood up.

Out of everyone in the room, only Norton came to her aid. The lines on his forehead deepened as he rushed to her. I noticed Abella studying the two of them with an inquisitive expression, but I was so focused on the phone I didn’t give it a thought. “I can get her something from your closet,” Norton offered, towering over the old woman.

“Helping a lady choose an outfit is my department, and I could use something to take my mind off of this . . . situation,” said Camilla. “Thank you, Philip, but I’m fine.” It was decided. Defeated, Norton helped her to her feet.

How long had it been? Two minutes? Three? In my pocket the phone felt like a bomb about to blow. Jade, Bebe, Flynn—all were watching. Camilla moved toward the door, her progress excruciatingly slow. What could I do? I followed.

On the staircase, she took caution with each step. At her age it was a miracle she could maneuver those stairs at all. I could hear her panting lightly as I walked behind her, close enough to deter her from pausing to rest. Her neat white bob, smooth as plastic, seemed frozen in space and time, and I realized for the first time that Camilla wore a wig.

On the third floor of the house, Camilla Sinclair’s massive bedroom smelled of some essential oil that made my nose itch. I hadn’t paid much attention to the decor during my search, but now I was struck by the sparseness of it. Every object, and its placement, was deliberate. It could have been a period room in a museum. Camilla would have had issues with my own grandmother’s disorderly, overly knickknacked house.

“I don’t suppose you’ll want something too casual.” She eased open the closet doors to reveal hundreds of options and tapped a finger against her thin lips. “Let’s see. What shall we choose?”

For the love of God, hurry up. “Honestly, anything is fine.”

Camilla selected her blandest ensemble, a white dress shirt and beige pants. “Go ahead, dear,” she said, crossing the room to sit down on the bed. She twisted a quarter turn away from me and folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll wait.”

It was the best chance I was likely to get. In the woman’s bedroom, just a few feet from where she sat, I quietly pulled out Jade’s phone. Holding my breath, I clicked the home button. No passcode screen. It hadn’t locked. I navigated to the phone’s settings, switched the auto-lock from five minutes to never, and sighed with relief. Five minutes. I must have had mere seconds to spare.