She rolled her eyes. “Your daughter is always sticking her nose into things.”
“She’s nine,” I said. “And this is her home.”
“She watches me like I’m a criminal,” Maribel snapped. “It’s strange.”
“Juniper said you were in my office last night,” I continued. “She said you took papers from the blue folder.”
Maribel’s eyes flicked toward the house.
“I was just looking for tape,” she said quickly. “Decorations needed—”
“Three papers,” I interrupted.
Her patience broke.
“Grant, the music is starting. We’ll talk later.”
She reached for my hand as if to guide me toward the aisle. I pulled away.
“No. We talk now.”
Her face hardened. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? Protect my child?”
Then she said something that froze the air.
“It’s not my fault she’s like her mother.”
Everything inside my head went silent.
“You never even met my wife,” I said slowly.
Maribel’s color drained. “People talk,” she muttered quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“You used her mother against her,” I said.
She tried to recover her smile. “Grant, don’t ruin this in front of everyone.”
Instead of answering, I walked toward the microphone.
The guests quieted as I picked it up.