“Read the pages marked with the paperclips,” Lydia whispered, wiping away a tear that wasn’t there.

He opened it. The room was so quiet I could hear the dry rustle of cheap paper. He read for ten seconds, and with every tick of the grandfather clock I watched his posture change.

Shoulders stiffening. Jaw locking. When he looked up at me, there was no misunderstanding left in his eyes.

Only disgust.

“Is this your handwriting?”

“Yes, but—”