“I started recording on the stairs,” I said.
“Old habit.”
“In my business, we get everything in writing.”
Voss’s face didn’t change.
But his hands did.
They went flat on the desk.
“Rachel Harmon doesn’t know she can sue,” I said.
“She thinks a church paid her bills.”
“She thinks my husband is the reason her daughter is in that bed.”
“By Monday, she’ll know exactly who is.”
“She’ll have a lawyer.”
“And a copy of this.”
Voss stood up.
“Mrs. Cole, you don’t want to do that.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m going to.”
Nobody said a word in the elevator.
Not Nate.
Not Owen.
Marcus rode all the way down with us.
At the lobby, he held the door.
“For the record, Doc,” he said quietly.
“I never wanted to walk you out.”
“Not once.”
Nate nodded.
He couldn’t speak.
We ended up on level four of the parking garage.
