Spencer had quit rubbing his neck.

Both hands lay flat on the oak table, his face pale against the dark wood.

“How much?” Spencer asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“How much is in those accounts, Mr.

Bellamy?”

Patricia rounded on her son, her cheeks burning red.

“It doesn’t matter how much it is, Spencer, because she isn’t touching one penny of it.

We’re contesting this today.”