Chapter 15: Letters

"No," I said.

Joanne's mouth opened and stayed open.

"I don't trade," I said. "The detective already has a warrant for that safe, and she opens it at nine tomorrow."

"Wynne, please."

"You called me our girl for twenty-four years, and you never once asked what I wanted for dinner."

Two of the Fitzhugh men came and stood beside me, and Joanne let go of my sleeve.

She was still standing in the foyer in her pearls when I walked out into the cold.

The study on the second floor of my father's house smelled of cigars and new leather.

Edgar had owned the house for fifteen years, and I had never been allowed inside it.

The detective, a tired woman in a gray coat, knelt in front of the wall safe while a locksmith worked the dial.

I stood behind her with my hands in my coat pockets.

The door swung open at nine and four minutes.

Inside were stacks of cash, a ring of keys, and a black phone in a clear bag.

Beneath them lay a folded invoice from a body shop in Charlottesville.

The detective plugged the phone into a laptop and turned the screen toward me.

Bree's face filled it, in the dome light of the Range Rover, with mascara down her cheeks.

She was laughing.

"Daddy, I think I hit something," she said, slurring. "A truck. It was really loud. Don't be mad."

Then, farther away, a man's voice, and it was Edgar's.

"Don't say another word. Stay where you are. I'm sending someone."

The detective stopped it there.

"The invoice is dated the fifth," she said. "Front bumper, hood and radiator. Paid in cash."

"Is that enough?" I asked.

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