“You didn’t stop them either.”
Before she could respond, a black BMW rolled in. Trevor, followed by Lillian in a tailored suit. Trevor looked worse than I had seen him outside the coffee shop four days earlier: dark circles, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, the polished man from the altar fully unraveled.
“What’s so urgent?” he demanded, but the fear was audible under the aggression. “You said two o’clock. Why?”
“Nothing urgent,” I said. “Just the truth.”
I checked my watch. One fifty-eight.
Tires on gravel.
Another door opened.
Detective Andrea Thornton walked into the gutted ballroom, her badge visible at her belt. She nodded at me and turned to Trevor.
“Mr. Kingsley, I’m Detective Thornton with the FBI Financial Crimes Unit. I need to speak with you.”
Trevor swallowed. His face drained.
