“He wants to trade Margaret for a lighter sentence on the fraud charges,” Vance explained.

“How?” I asked.

“He claims he has recorded phone calls,” Vance said. “Conversations where Margaret explicitly outlines how she planned to force you out of the estate.”

“And the oil?” I asked, my hand instinctively reaching for the heavy bandages on my left arm.

“He says she talked about that too,” Vance said. “He is willing to testify that she premeditated the assault.”

“He was in the kitchen, Vance,” I said, looking at the beige linoleum under my feet. “He watched her do it.”

“I know,” Vance said softly. “But his attorney is pushing for a plea. He wants the conspiracy charge dropped to a misdemeanor.”

A scratch ran across the gray floor tiles, catching the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor.

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” I said. “But don’t promise him a thing.”

Vance led me down the hall to a small, windowless consultation room.

The walls were painted a dull beige that was peeling at the baseboards.

Ethan was sitting at a metal table, his hands cuffed in front of him.