"If you ask about that trust one more time, I swear you'll regret ever being born."

Douglas called me directly the next morning.

The hospital had issued me a replacement phone through my insurance — a basic model, nothing on it yet except Gerald's number and Detective Miller's.

When it rang at seven forty-three and I saw the Minneapolis number, I knew before I answered.

I let it ring twice more.

Then I picked up.

"Savannah." His voice was exactly as I remembered it.

Measured.

Certain of itself.

The voice of a man who had never once in his life believed he would be held accountable for anything.

"Douglas."

A pause.

He didn't like that I'd used his first name.

"I think we should talk," he said.

"Calmly.

Like adults."

"We're talking now."

"Not like this.

Not over the phone.

I'd like you to come to the house.

Your mother and I—"

"I have three fr@ctured ribs," I said.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Savannah." His tone shifted — just slightly, just enough to remind me of every dinner table conversation where that shift had meant I was about to be punished for something.

"You've been speaking to people.

Sharing documents.

Making accusations.

Do you understand what you're doing to this family?"

"I understand exactly what I'm doing."

"Those people — those Marsh people — they are not your family.

They are strangers who want money that doesn't belong to them.

Your grandfather made his wishes very clear in the original trust documents.

Whatever Gerald Foss has told you—"

"Gerald showed me the carbon copy," I said.

"The amendment.

With Grandfather's handwriting in the margin."

Silence.

It lasted four full seconds.

I counted.

"That document," Douglas said carefully, "is not legally valid.

It was never filed.

It was never witnessed properly.

Any attorney worth his license will tell you it cannot hold up."

"Detective Miller seemed interested in it."

Another silence.

Shorter this time.

"You went to the police."

"They came to me.

You left me in an alley, Douglas.

Did you think that wouldn't be investigated?"

"You att@cked me first." His voice had hardened now.

The smoothness was gone.

"You came into my office making wild accusations, you threw documents at me, you were completely out of control.

I have witnesses."

"You have Beatrice."

"I have colleagues who were in the building that evening."

"Then you should make sure their stories match," I said.

"Because the forensic accountant who's been reviewing the trust transfers for the past week is going to have some very specific questions about where four million dollars went."

The line went quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something I had only heard from him a handful of times in my life.

Low.

Flat.

The voice he used when he was no longer performing and had decided to simply be what he was.

"You have no idea what you're starting," he said.

"I know exactly what I'm starting."

"I will take everything from you.

Your reputation.

Whatever career you think you have.

I will call every person you know and I will make sure they understand that you are unstable, that you have always been unstable, that this is a pattern going back years.

I have resources you cannot match.

I have relationships you cannot touch.

And when this is over, you will have nothing — and those two strangers you've been meeting with in that hospital room will go back to wherever they came from and forget your name."

I let him finish.

"Are you done?" I asked.

He said nothing.

"I recorded this call," I said.

"Minnesota is a one-party consent state.

Everything you just said is now on file."

The line went de@d.

I set the phone on the blanket and looked at it for a moment.

Then I called Detective Miller.

She picked up on the first ring.

"He called me," I said.

"I know.