Lydia Crane recorded his words on her notepad, her pen scratching against the paper.

“This is a confession, Mr. Bellamy,” Lydia said.

“I know,” Warren said, his head bowing.

“It was the only way he would keep quiet about the trust.”

Marcus laughed, a short, sharp sound that had no humor in it.

He walked over to the fireplace, leaning his elbow against the carved mantle.

“So you’ve ruined your career to save your skin, Warren,” Marcus said.

“But that doesn’t change the reality of where we stand.”

Aunt Caroline looked between them, her face pale.

“What do you mean, Marcus?” she asked.

“The cemetery is protected,” I said, stepping between Marcus and the table.

“The county will freeze the transfer tomorrow morning.”

Marcus pulled a leather-bound checkbook from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the table.

It slid across the wood, stopping right next to Lydia’s laptop.

“Wexler Stone doesn’t care about county freezes,” Marcus said.

“They already wired the funds.”

“We can return the money,” Aunt Caroline said, her voice frantic.

“We will cancel the contract and pay them back.”