“I signed her name,” Nolan said, staring at the polished wood of the table. “And I made sure she thought she was losing her mind so she wouldn’t question the transfers.”

Marjorie let out a sharp, choked gasp from the corner.

“Nolan, shut up,” she pleaded, her voice trembling.

But the admission was already on the record.

I looked at my husband and felt nothing but the cold drafts of the air conditioning.

His development company, Pierce Holdings, was already defaulting on three major bank loans without my family’s backing, and I knew his mother’s historic townhouse would be listed for auction within the month to cover the mounting legal debts.

Sloane was looking at a plea deal, but Nolan was looking at a prison cell.

“We are finished here,” Sarah said, closing her notepad with a firm snap.

Nolan didn’t move; he sat staring at his own hands.

I stood up, my knees slightly weak, and walked out of the room into the bright corridor.

The glass doors at the end of the hall showed the gray, overcast Philadelphia sky.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my palm.