I whispered, “Patricia, this house was never his.”
And that was only the first lie I exposed.
Patricia hammered the brass knocker until I thought it might dent. Through the app on my phone, I watched her mouth forming words that the thick mahogany door thankfully muffled. A moment later, Daniel’s black SUV pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, looking haggard, still wearing his rumpled dress shirt from the night before.
He marched up the steps and tried his own key. Nothing.
I pressed the intercom button. The chime echoed loudly on the porch.
“Emily,” Daniel’s voice crackled through the speaker, caught between an angry demand and a desperate plea. “Open the door. My mother is freezing.”
“The climate control in her luxury sedan works perfectly fine,” I replied, sipping my black coffee. “Though you might want to check the gas gauge. The company credit card was deactivated at midnight.”
Silence stretched across the camera feed. Patricia stopped pacing. Daniel stared directly at the lens.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, the bravado slipping entirely from his voice.
I set my mug down, walked to the foyer, and opened the heavy door just enough to stand in the frame. I handed him a thick manila envelope. The legal files.
