We entered the diner. It was quiet. Arthur Sterling was already there, sitting in a corner booth. He was a formidable man, silver-haired, wearing a suit that cost more than my house. Two large men in suits sat at the counter, watching the door.
Marcus walked up to the booth first. He didn’t ask for permission; he just sat down. I slid in next to him.
Arthur looked at us with cold, gray eyes. “You have five minutes. You claim my wife tried to kill my daughter-in-law. That is an insane accusation.”
“Is it?” I placed a photo on the table. It was a picture I had taken of Olivia’s battered face the night I found her.
Arthur flinched. The mask of the businessman slipped for a second, revealing a shocked old man.
“My daughter found this,” I said, sliding the first folder across the table. “Financial records from the Hope Foundation. Your wife has siphoned five million dollars into shell companies.”
Arthur opened the folder. He put on his reading glasses. His eyes scanned the lines of data. His face remained impassive, but his fingers tightened on the paper.
“This… is concerning,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t prove she attacked Olivia.”
“She attacked Olivia because Olivia found this,” Marcus said. “And because Olivia is pregnant.”
Arthur’s head snapped up. “Pregnant?”
“With your grandchild,” I said. “Lucille drove her to the woods, beat her with a tire iron, and left her to die because she said her blood—my blood—was dirty.”
Arthur looked down at the photo of Olivia again. He took a deep breath.
“You have more,” he said, looking at the briefcase. “I can tell.”
Marcus slid the second folder over. “Proof of the offshore accounts. And proof of the affair with Paul Nichols, your hotel manager.”
