The lead detective held up a clear evidence bag with the envelope of marked bills in it.

Then he set a small recorder on the tray table and pressed play, and Beckett’s own voice filled the delivery room — the price, the plan, the casual arrangement of my death.

His knees went out from under him.

The detective hauled him back upright.

“You recorded me,” he choked.

“You planned to have me killed,” I said.

“Me, and our daughter’s mother, for money you were already locked out of.”

“It was just talk!