“An account you opened three weeks after Laura died.”

Howard tapped his pocket notebook against his knee.

He stepped closer to the table and stood right beside Mark’s empty chair.

“We took a nice drive to Oakridge Marina yesterday,” Howard said.

Mark swallowed hard.

His neck flushed deep red above his crisp white collar.

“Secret marina slip fees for a seventy-foot motor yacht named Sea Star,” Carl said.

Mark dropped his heavy silver pen.