Chapter 15: The Recording

Colt's POV

"Now I'm saying," Della said.

She had her phone in her hand with the bank alert still on it, and her eyes on mine.

"Go to the beach house. Ask her where the three-twelve money went."

"You want me to talk to her."

"I want you to talk to her with your phone recording," she said. "Every word, saved somewhere she can't reach."

"The cloud uploads while it records."

"Then do that."

I stood there with a bandaged hand and understood that she had just given me something.

It was the first thing she had asked of me in three weeks, and it was a job.

"Yes," I said.

"The donors are in the lobby at ten. I'll tell them the stone stays bare until donor night, and they'll vote on a name then."

I drove out to the beach house with the window down and the recorder already running on the seat.

It was our house, and Della had picked every room of it the year we married.

The gate code was still our wedding date, which Camille had never bothered to change.

She was in the kitchen with the kettle on.

She was wearing Della's navy cardigan.

I stood in the door and looked at it.

It was the one with the pocket Della kept her pens in, and it had been on the hook by the back door since the winter.

"Colt," Camille said warmly. "You're bleeding through that."

"I'm fine."

"Sit. I'll make tea."

"I'm not staying for tea."

I set my phone face up on the counter, next to the sugar bowl, and she glanced at it and looked away.

I think she assumed it was a phone.

"There was a withdrawal at three twelve this morning," I said. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to Heron Point."

"Was there?"

"It was authorized with Dean's stamp and my signature. I haven't signed anything for that foundation in three years."

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