“The serial numbers on those transfer slips match the insurance records for my stolen diamond brooch,” I said.

“Spencer filed a false theft report on my platinum filigree brooch to pay for private clinic bills in New Jersey.”

Rosalind reached for her leather folder, but Arthur laid his hand over hers.

“Brielle,” Arthur said again, his voice dropping to a stern, flat tone.

“Are the twins Spencer’s biological children?”

“No,” Brielle whispered, her breathy voice barely reaching across the mahogany table.

Spencer turned toward the tall window, every bit of color gone from his face.