Not all at once. It was almost worse than that. First confusion. Then calculation. Then a stillness so complete it made the room colder.
He turned the envelope over, slit it open with his thumb, and started reading.
I stayed where I was, one hand braced against the counter, because if I moved too much I thought I might either throw up or start shaking so hard my teeth would chatter.
The first page was the petition.
The second was the financial summary.
Then he hit the photographs.
His eyes flicked over the date stamp, the hotel entrance, the restaurant shot. I watched him land on the image of Brooke in the sapphire necklace.
He looked up.
“You had me followed.”
His voice was quiet. That frightened me more than if he’d yelled.
“You gave me a reason,” I said.
He set the photos down and kept reading. I watched his jaw flex once, hard, as he moved through the timeline I had built: hotel charges, fake dinners, consultancy account, documented pattern of deception. Sandra had laid it out with the kind of language that leaves very little room for improvisation.
When he finished, he put both hands flat on the island and leaned into them.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In my house.”