Vivian seemed to shrink as her husband drew near, her shoulders dropping.

Thomas stopped two feet away from me, leaning heavily on his gold-topped cane.

“You’ve played a very clever hand, Evelyn,” Thomas said, his voice raspy but clear.

“I only brought the truth,” I said.

Thomas looked down at the discarded medical files on the floor, then looked back up at me with a faint, chilling smile.

“The truth is a highly malleable commodity in Rhode Island,” Thomas said quietly.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook.

“I believe you are still trying to protect the memory of your late mother, Clara,” Thomas said.

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name.

“Your mother was the treasurer for the Vale House foundation during its first decade,” Thomas continued, tapping the black notebook against his palm.

“My mother was an honest woman,” I said, though my hand tightened around the envelope in my grasp.

“She was,” Thomas agreed softly. “But these records—which my associates have spent the last forty-eight hours compiling—suggest otherwise.”