For three years, that look had been enough to silence me.
Not tonight.
My lips were cracked. My tongue felt heavy. My ribs screamed when I breathed.
But I had rehearsed this moment in my head a hundred times, on nights when I lay awake beside Grant and listened to him sleep like an innocent man.
I turned my eyes toward Dr. Reed.
“My tablet,” I whispered.
The detective leaned closer.
“What was that?”
“My tablet,” I repeated. “Old blue case. Bottom drawer of my nightstand. Cloud account. Password is ClaraMercer—no spaces—seventeen.”
Grant froze.
It lasted half a second.
Then he smiled.
“My wife is concussed,” he said. “She’s rambling.”
I kept going.
“There are videos. Audio files. Bank transfers. Offshore accounts. Shell charities. Names. Dates.” My voice cracked, but the room had gone very still. “He records everything.”
Grant’s face drained of color so quickly it almost looked theatrical.
