“One flash drive contains copies of emails.
Another contains audio from the mansion’s old security recorder.”
I turned toward her.
“The recorder was disconnected.”
“Mrs.
Calloway disconnected the cameras,” Rosa said.
“She did not disconnect the backup microphone in your office.”
An officer brought down the flash drives.
Another photographed the cartons and began counting the sealed bundles without opening them.
The lead officer stepped aside to call a supervisor.
I leaned closer to Rosa.
“You knew Harold was sending me away tonight.”
“I suspected it.”
“And you let me go?”
“I needed the house empty.”
Anger rose again, but this time it had nowhere honest to land.
“You could have told me.”
“You would have confronted him,” she said.
I opened my mouth, then stopped.
She was right.
The old Edward Calloway had built towers by forcing decisions.
Even ruined, I still believed force and volume could repair anything.
Had Rosa told me, I would have called Harold.
I would have accused Vanessa.
I would have warned everyone involved before we had proof.
Rosa had done what I could not.
She had waited.
The lead officer returned.
“Financial crimes is reviewing the account information,” he said.
“Until they arrive, nobody leaves.”
Before I could answer, headlights swept across the foyer windows.
A black sedan stopped behind the police cars.
Harold Bennett stepped out.
He wore a navy blazer and the concerned expression he had perfected during decades of charity dinners and business negotiations.
He spoke briefly to an officer at the front door, then looked through the glass and saw me in handcuffs.
His face changed for less than a second.
Satisfaction.
Then concern returned.
“Edward,” he said as he entered.
“My God.
I came as soon as I heard.”
I stared at him.
“Heard what?”
“That police were here.”
“No one called you.”
Harold spread his hands.
“A neighbor contacted me.
They know we’re friends.”
Rosa’s eyes moved to the black sedan.
Someone remained inside.
The rear door opened.
Vanessa stepped out wearing a cream coat over a dark dress.
Her attorney followed, carrying a leather case.
For a moment, I saw my wife as she had looked at our anniversary dinner six months before the collapse—elegant, composed, untouchable.
Then she entered the foyer and looked directly at the handcuffs around my wrists.
“Edward,” she whispered.
