“My attorney has reviewed them.”
The answer disturbed Vivian. Her grip changed, thumb pressing into the leather seam.
Grant glanced at her. “When?”
“This morning.”
“You didn’t speak to Miriam this morning.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “She read them last night.”
He studied her face, searching for the uncertainty he had depended on since the accident.
Evelyn let him look.
She had spent eighteen days answering questions from physicians, therapists, insurance representatives, police officers, and well-meaning relatives who lowered their voices whenever they asked whether her memory was intact. She had learned that if she answered too quickly, people suspected defensiveness. If she paused, they suspected confusion. If she showed anger, they blamed medication. If she stayed calm, they called her detached.
Grant had been the easiest to understand.
He wanted her weakened because weakness made his version of events sound reasonable.