For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Flynn smiled too.
“Of course.”
That was six months before he stepped over my broken body.
By then, he had stopped asking.
He had started searching.
I discovered he had entered my grandfather’s study because a drawer I always locked was slightly open.
Later, I noticed documents rearranged.
Then Cordelia casually referenced the exact acreage of the property during dinner.
That information wasn’t public.
I confronted Flynn.
He denied everything.
So I installed cameras.
Not everywhere.
Just the study and the hallway outside it.
Within forty-eight hours, I watched my husband try three different keys on Grandfather’s locked document cabinet.
I should have confronted him.
Instead, I called Phoebe Lang.
Phoebe had been my grandfather’s attorney for twenty-three years.
She had white hair cut sharply at her chin and the voice of a woman who had billed powerful men enough money to stop fearing them.
