If Jason’s parents had transferred twenty thousand dollars toward the down payment two months after the wedding, then the house could not possibly have been purchased before the marriage.

The deed was dated a lie. And George Whitfield had, sitting in a filing box in Indianapolis, the dated, signed, notarized proof of exactly when that money had moved — the one document Jason could not have known still existed, because he had been a boy when his father taught him to keep receipts, and had forgotten that his father still did.

Chapter 7 — Ten Past Ten

At ten minutes past ten, Jason came in. He wore an expensive jacket and the easy confidence of a man who had never once, in his professional life, walked into a room he didn’t expect to leave the winner of.

His eyes went around the small apartment, taking its measure, and something faintly like distaste crossed his face.

“I’m sure Claire’s already given you her dramatic version of all this,” he said.

“It isn’t a version, son.” Ruth’s voice was colder than Claire had ever heard it.