The woman who entered was not his mother’s housekeeper, not a neighbor, not some church lady dropping by with gossip.
It was Detective Marla Hayes from the county financial crimes unit.
Behind her stood my attorney, Denise Caldwell, calm in a navy suit, holding a leather folder. Two uniformed deputies waited on the porch, rain dripping from their hats.
Caleb’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.
Evelyn’s pearls shifted against her throat.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Detective Hayes said to me, “good morning.”
“Good morning, Detective,” I replied.
Caleb stood so fast his chair scraped the hardwood.
“What the hell is this?”
I lifted the silver lid from the final dish.
Inside was not food.
Inside were printed bank transfers, photographs, hotel receipts, fake invoices, and a copy of the security footage from our hallway camera. On top lay one crisp image: Caleb’s hand striking my face at 11:43 p.m.
Evelyn gasped, but not for me.
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