Dean’s voice filled the little room, clear and loud, recorded outside the wooden tackle shed at Blackwood Lake four weeks earlier.

“You hand me those paper folders right now, Clara,” his recorded voice demanded through the speaker.

“Daniel wasn’t himself back then, and you have no idea what you’re looking at.”

Dean’s jaw locked as the recording played his own harsh words back to the room.

“We’re offering a plea deal,” Higgins said, looking past the phone right at Dean.

“You sign a full restitution order for the ninety-four thousand dollars taken from the family account, or this goes to trial next month.”

“And where’s he supposed to come up with ninety-four thousand dollars?” his lawyer asked.