“Mrs. Whitmore,” Detective Hayes said to me, “good morning.”
“Good morning, Detective,” I replied.
Caleb stood so abruptly his chair scraped across the hardwood.
“What the hell is this?”
I lifted the silver lid from the final dish.
There was no food inside.
Inside were printed bank transfers, photographs, hotel receipts, false invoices, and a copy of the security footage from our hallway camera. On top was one clear image: Caleb’s hand striking my face at 11:43 p.m.
Evelyn gasped, but not because of me.
“Caleb,” she hissed, “what did you do?”
He recovered quickly. Men like Caleb always do. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and his voice dropped into the courtroom tone he used to intimidate contractors, waiters, and me.
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