Gavin pulled up to the Morgans’ estate on Lincoln Parkway in the city of Buffalo. Warren sat next to him. From the rear passenger side window of the car, Val couldn’t help but stare at the sheer magnificence of the place. The house was Beaux Arts Classical, a dominant design of the early 1900s. Val only knew this because she had found a newspaper write-up from last spring about the Morgans’ home. It was featured on the annual Buffalo garden walk. Before today’s visit, Val googled what she could about this family. This article was prominent. Other than the surprisingly sparse reporting about the death of Gabrielle and her son, their names were conspicuously missing from any media or online sources.

The use of symmetry in the architecture was obvious. The red-brick structure had large, white centered columns framing a wide veranda. Tall windows were equidistant on each side. Elaborate white glazed terracotta and wrought-iron accents dominated the architecture.

The street itself was composed of one early twentieth century mansion after the other. Buffalo was home to some of the wealthiest families in that time period—the booming grain and steel industry drove them here—and this street, along with Delaware Avenue, was one of the top choices of where the elite, uber rich wanted to build their homes. Though Delaware Avenue was described as a millionaire’s row, many of the original houses there had been torn down or converted into commercial property. Lincoln Parkway remained residential. “How much do you think that goes for?” she asked.

“More than I’ll make in a lifetime,” Gavin replied.

“At our salary, maybe a few lifetimes,” Warren added.

Val, Gavin and Warren got out of the car, trudged through the snow, and climbed the stone steps to the front door. Gavin rang the doorbell. They waited for a couple of minutes. Gavin put his finger on the bell to ring a second time when the door opened and an attractive woman in a tailored black dress answered. She had a pale pink cardigan on her shoulders and was wearing black high heels. Very nice, expensive high heels.

“Yes?” the woman asked with a polite smile as she pulled back the door in a welcoming manner. She had a neat and precise way about her. Opening the door for guests was an orchestrated event, which she played out effortlessly. Her ash blonde hair was just past her shoulders in length. Bangs were angled to the side with a deliberate style to them. Val couldn’t help but notice the woman’s deep blue eyes. Delicate fine lines could be seen on her face as she smiled a welcome to the group standing on her doorstep. Val guessed her age to be early fifties. Everything about her appeared to be, in one simple term, perfect.