We set the auction date for the following month. Julian took the violin with him, packed in a specialized velvet-lined case that looked like it belonged to a diplomat. Over the next few weeks, I worked quietly in my big house.

I packed my books into cardboard boxes, wrapped my mother’s Spode china in bubble wrap, and prepared to downsize to the small, sunlit condo near Reed’s Lake. I didn’t hire Wayne Grier to do the estate sale. I hired a lovely local woman named Sarah, who handled everything with quiet efficiency. When Wayne called me on a Tuesday to ask when he could pick up the “old fiddle,” I told him the arrangements had already been made.

“You’re making a mistake, Martha,” Wayne had said, his voice dropping its friendly tone, replaced by a sharp, condescending edge. “You’re going to end up paying some company half of what your stuff is worth just to move it.

You should have stuck with me.” I simply thanked him for his time and hung up. Before I did, I asked for his office mailing address, claiming I wanted to send him a thank-you note for his initial appraisal. Instead, I sent him the official, glossy catalog for the Detroit auction. I used a red fine-tip marker to draw a neat circle around Lot 42: The 1892 Raffaele Fiorini Violin.

On the Saturday of the auction, my neighbor Clara drove me to Detroit.

The gallery was crowded, filled with wealthy collectors, representatives from various musical institutions, and serious men in dark wool coats. I took a seat near the back, wrapping my woolen scarf tightly around my neck against the chill of the air conditioning. About ten minutes before the bidding began, I saw Wayne walk in. He was wearing a shiny gray suit that looked a little too tight around the middle, and he was looking around the room with a confused, slightly defensive expression.

He didn’t see me at first. He sat in the third row, leaning back and looking at his program. I watched him flip through the pages. I knew the exact moment he found the page. His head jerked down, his shoulders tensing under his cheap suit jacket. He stared at the picture of my violin, then at the estimated value printed in bold black ink: eighty thousand to ninety-five thousand dollars. He stood up, as if he was about to leave, but then he sat right back down, his face a strange, mottled shade of red.