Chloe crossed her arms.
“She is twisting it.”
“It came from your number,” I said.
“Phones can be manipulated.”
“Certainly,” I replied.
“Which is why I preserved the original message instead of relying on a screenshot.”
Trevor stared at me.
That was the first moment he remembered what I did for a living.
Not bookkeeping.
Not taxes.
Evidence.
I had spent years being introduced by Trevor as “the accountant” while his family smiled politely and changed the subject.
They never asked what corporations hired me to investigate.
They never asked why attorneys called at strange hours or why I sometimes spent weeks reviewing records that other people wanted buried.
Trevor knew more than they did, but even he had reduced my profession to something harmless in his mind.
Until now.
“Brooke,” he said, lowering his voice, “can we talk privately?”
“We had five years to talk privately.”
One of his sisters moved toward the dining room chair nearest her, then seemed to think better of sitting down.
Arthur still had not taken his eyes off Chloe.
“Is that you in the picture?”
Chloe’s jaw tightened.
“Arthur—”
“Is that you?”
She glanced at Trevor.
It was small.
Barely a second.
But Arthur saw it.
So did everyone else.
Trevor stepped forward.
“Dad, listen to me.”
Arthur’s head snapped toward him.
“I’m listening.”
Trevor opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I had imagined this moment several ways during the previous three days.
In some versions Trevor denied everything.
In others Chloe attacked me immediately.
In one particularly satisfying version, both of them simply confessed.
Reality was messier.
They tried all three.
Trevor started with denial.
“It happened once.”
Chloe turned on him.
“Trevor.”
He realized his mistake before anyone else spoke.
Arthur repeated the words.
“It happened once?”
Trevor rubbed both hands over his face.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I closed the folder halfway.
“Interesting correction.”
“Stop doing that,” he snapped.
“Doing what?”
“Acting like this is an investigation.”
I looked at the six-foot photograph.
