The tablet under Rebecca’s blanket felt suddenly heavy.
Caleb went still.
For the first time since the diagnosis, his face stopped performing grief.
“How would you know where I drove?”
Dr. Harris glanced at Rebecca, not with pity now, but with permission.
Rebecca lifted the tablet from beneath the blanket and turned the screen toward him.
On it, the frozen security feed showed Caleb inside her private study with Vanessa beside him, the empty safe open behind them, the brown envelope in his hand.
The mug trembled once.
A single drop of tea slid over the rim and landed on Caleb’s cuff.
The woman in the blazer took one step closer.
“My name is Detective Maren Cole. We received a call from Attorney Whitaker at 3:04 p.m. We also received a forwarded video file from Mrs. Ward at 3:09 p.m.”
Caleb’s jaw flexed.
“Rebecca is confused. She’s feverish.”
Rebecca’s lips parted. No sound came out at first. She swallowed against the cracked skin of her throat.
“Then why,” she whispered, “did you go to my safe?”
Caleb looked at her the way he used to look at staff who handed him the wrong wine at fundraisers.
Disappointed.
Superior.
Patient only because witnesses were present.
“I was collecting documents for your care.”
Detective Cole’s eyes dropped to the mug.
“With your business consultant?”
The monitor tapped faster.
Caleb’s smile thinned.
“She helps with estate organization.”
Rebecca blinked once. The room blurred, then sharpened.
“Vanessa said the house finally felt like yours.”
The security officer looked at Caleb.
Dr. Harris did too.
Caleb still held the mug.
“It’s tea,” he said with a small laugh. “She drinks it every night.”
The woman in the blazer stepped forward.
