“I record everything in my pantry,” I said. “And in my server room.”

Vance pulled his cuffs from his utility belt.

“Turn around, Detective,” Vance said.

Harris slowly turned, his face dark with rage as the metal cuffs clicked around his wrists.

“This is a setup,” Harris muttered. “She planned this.”

“You came into my house, Harris,” I said. “You chose to take Julian’s money.”

Vance led Harris toward the stairs, his grip firm on the detective’s shoulder.

I followed them up the wooden steps, my knees shaking but my hands steady.

When we reached the kitchen, the air was cold.

The front door was wide open, and the red and blue lights of multiple police cruisers flashed against the trees outside.

Two state troopers were standing in my foyer, their wide-brimmed hats casting long shadows.

“We have a situation,” Vance called out to them.

The troopers looked up, their expressions hardening as they saw Harris in cuffs.

“What’s going on here, Vance?” one of the troopers asked, stepping forward.

“Detective Harris attempted to tamper with evidence and threatened a witness,” Vance said.