I lowered the paper. “You brought your mistress to my father’s funeral in my dress.”
His mouth opened, then shut.
“No,” I said. “You made inappropriate. I’m just supplying context.”
I heard Mr. Blackwood clear his throat behind me, but I wasn’t finished yet.
“There’s more,” I said.
That was when Becca stood up too, crystals flashing like a disco ball in church light. Her face had gone tight and shiny.
“What estate?” she asked, looking at Grant now instead of me. “What is she talking about? You said—”
“Sit down,” Grant snapped.
The whole cathedral went still on that one.
Becca blinked like she’d been slapped.
I had hated her for the last thirty minutes with a purity that almost felt medicinal. But that look on her face—shock curdling into humiliation—gave me my first hint that she had not, in fact, come there fully briefed. She had come to make an entrance. He had let her believe she’d be admired.
My father would have adored the cruelty of that trap, if only because he hadn’t set it for her. He’d set it for Grant, and she’d simply walked in holding his hand.
I glanced at Blackwood. He gave the slightest nod.