“Just a quitclaim deed on the house, dear. And a small acknowledgment of the trust. Aaron will handle the rest.”
I looked down at the papers. Then I looked back up at the woman who had spent 20 years calling me ungrateful for inheriting my own mother’s home.
“You paid a teenage boy to date me?”
“I invested,” Diane corrected. “In what should have been mine.”
I let her have that moment. I let Aaron pick up the pen and click it open, ready to guide me through where to sign.
Then I picked up my phone from the table, tapped a couple of things, and set it on the counter, screen facing up.
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 across her cheek.
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