“But Harrison managed that clinic’s trust fund,” Jonathan said.

He took a step closer to his wife, his shadow falling over her face.

“And your father was the chief donor,” Jonathan added.

Rebecca did not answer.

She looked down at her ringing phone, her fingers twitching.

“Did you fake them?” Jonathan asked.

The question hung in the air, louder than the city traffic around us.

“Jonathan, please,” Rebecca muttered, looking around the street. “Not here.”

“Did you and Harrison fake the reports to get me to marry you?” he demanded.

The cab driver tapped the steering wheel, clearing his throat loudly.

“Lady, are we going or what?” the driver called out. “The meter is running.”

“Go,” I told the driver.

I grabbed the inner handle of the heavy door and pulled it shut with all my strength.

Jonathan didn’t try to stop me this time.

He was staring at Rebecca, his face pale and twisted with a sudden, horrible realization.

The cab pulled away from the curb, the tires splashing puddle water onto the sidewalk.

Through the rear window, I watched them standing under the flickering streetlamp.