“Mrs. Hale, your husband has been charging his lunches with Brielle to the company account for eight months,” Mr. Whitaker said evenly. “Roughly nine thousand dollars.” The porch seemed to tilt. Trevor’s mouth opened and closed. I stared at him, and he looked at the floorboards. Mr. Whitaker held up a thin folder. “I came myself because I did not want you to hear it from a stranger.”

Trevor finally found his voice. “Sir, those were client meetings.” Mr. Whitaker shook his head. “Brielle already told me otherwise this morning.” Behind him, a second car pulled up, and Brielle stepped out in a trench coat, eyes red, carrying a small cardboard box. She walked up the path without looking at Trevor and said to me, “I owe you the truth, and I brought proof.”