“Don’t listen,” I whispered.
She buried her face against my shoulder.
Mercer pushed through the crowd.
“No statements.”
We finally reached a quiet conference room.
The second the door shut, I turned on him.
“What else don’t I know?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
Instead, he opened his briefcase.
“Your parents came to me six months before the fire.”
My chest tightened.
“You knew them?”
“Your father contacted me about estate planning.”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Because they were trying to protect you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“They did a great job.”
Mercer let the words sit.
Then he pushed the trust papers across the table.
“Your parents believed Denise and Howard were having serious financial problems.”
I looked toward Vicky.
She was sitting in the corner with crayons one of the court clerks had given her.
Mercer lowered his voice.
“Howard had approached your father several times asking for money.”
