“I gave them to her.”
“They were not yours to give.”
“They were in my house.”
“My mother left them to me.
They are listed in the estate inventory, insured under my name, and recorded in the safe log.”
Sloane stared at him.
“You told me they belonged to your family.”
“They do.”
I held out my hand.
“I am the family member they belong to.”
For several seconds, Sloane did not move.
Then she unclasped the first earring.
Her fingers were trembling now.
The diamond touched the table with a small, hard sound.
The second followed.
She pushed them toward me.
I did not pick them up.
The attorney placed them in a small evidence pouch and sealed it.
That simple action seemed to frighten Grant more than the frozen accounts.
He could dismiss anger as emotion.
He could label tears unstable.
He could call a confrontation a scene.
A sealed evidence pouch was harder to insult.
His mother stood.
“This has gone far enough.”
The lead attorney looked at her.
“Please remain.
Your signature appears on two board consents approving Mercer Strategic’s contract.”
The room became still.
That was why she had gone pale when the attorneys arrived.
She had known about the contract.
Perhaps she had not known about every payment, but she had signed what Grant placed before her without asking questions.
She had assumed, as she always did, that his confidence was proof of his innocence.
“I was told it was routine,” she said.
“You signed a statement confirming that no officer had a personal relationship with the vendor,” the attorney replied.
Her eyes moved toward Sloane’s stomach.
For once, she had no instruction for me.
Grant slammed his palm against the table.
“This is a private family matter.”
One of the donors spoke from the far end.
“You charged it to a charitable foundation.
That made it our matter.”
Grant turned on me.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
The answer disoriented him.
He had expected denial, apology, or some explanation that would make my actions smaller.
I gave him none.
He pointed toward the door.
“Get these people out of my house.”
The lead attorney closed the first folder.
“The property deed is held by Mrs.
Whitaker’s separate trust.”
Grant looked at me.
That truth had been in front of him for years.
The house had been purchased with funds from my father’s estate.
