“But do you dare to swear before God? Can you honestly say you never wished Yves dead?”
Bertha instantly shot back at Althea with a cold, mocking laugh. “Only the guilty need to swear on anything. Why should I? If I did, I did; if I didn’t, I didn’t. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”
Helen marveled at how quick Bertha’s mind worked and hurried to chime in, backing her up without hesitation.
Truthfully, Althea wasn’t wrong; after Yves’ car accident, the three sisters-in-law had certainly whispered plenty behind his back. They all thought Yves had it coming—after all, he was the youngest son but somehow managed to get the biggest share. Who wouldn’t be resentful in their place?
“So much talk, but you’re all just cowards—big mouths with no guts to admit it,” Althea pressed, her tone harsh. She had already resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn’t be leaving Quigley Manor unscathed tonight. If she could drag someone else down with her, that was something.
Bertha saw right through her. “You know disaster’s coming your way, so you’re desperate to find someone to take the fall, aren’t you?”
After more than twenty years together, Bertha knew Althea’s character inside out.
Helen quickly joined Bertha’s side, and the two of them tag-teamed Althea with sharp, biting words. Normally, dealing with either one was a headache; now, with both together, Althea didn’t stand a chance.
Althea was left speechless, fuming with rage but unable to vent it, forced to swallow her anger.
“That’s enough. All of you, stop it.” Mr. Quigley Sr., though aged, was hardly senile. He knew neither of his daughters-in-law were saints—just a touch more cunning than Althea, a shade sharper.
“All of you, back to your rooms. I don’t want to see anyone out tonight.”
Relieved, Bertha and the others scattered like startled birds, leaving Yves and a few others alone in the cavernous parlor.
Mr. Quigley turned to Yves. “You’re the wronged party. You decide how this is handled.”

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