The recording timer was still running.
“Forty-seven minutes,” I said. “It started the second I heard your voice through the bedroom door, Aaron. Before I ever walked back to pour the wine. I heard your call in the bedroom, and I recorded every word she just said. I just sent a copy of the conversation to a trusted source.”
Diane’s smile froze halfway up her cheek.
The recording timer was still running.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
I reached into the drawer beneath the silverware and pulled out a thin envelope I’d been keeping under the takeout menus for three months.
“Mr. Whitfield says hello.”
Aaron’s pen had stopped clicking.
“He’s my grandma’s attorney,” I explained. “I went to him in August. Not because I knew, but because the fourth time Aaron asked me to add him to the deed, something in my stomach went quiet, and I told myself I was being paranoid the whole drive over.”
