“Furthermore,” I said, reading again, “to Rebecca Thornton, who according to the investigator’s report appears to be under the impression she is entering a life of considerable financial comfort, I leave this clarification: the house, the cars, the investment accounts, the club membership, and nearly every visible luxury attached to my son-in-law have been subsidized by Crawford family assets, not by his independent success.”
Becca turned fully toward Grant then. “What?”
The word cracked.
Grant looked murderous now. At me, at Blackwood, maybe at the entire concept of public consequence.
“Rebecca,” he said through clenched teeth, “this isn’t the time.”
She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Apparently it is.”
A few rows back, someone coughed into what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Aunt Helen didn’t bother pretending. Her laugh came out full-bodied and rich, the way it did when she watched bad people discover arithmetic.