He set his work bag down and looked at her directly. Emily, I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer it honestly. She met his eyes. All right. Does any part of you, even a small part, even the part you'd never say out loud, does any part of you wonder if they might be right?
The farmhouse was very still. Emily held his gaze without flinching. "No," she said. You sure, Marcus? Her voice was quiet and entirely certain.
I made three phone calls to Brentwell. I spoke to people who were there. I read the resignation letter you filed, which is a matter of public record in the construction licensing board. I know what happened. She paused.
I'm someone who checks. It's the only thing I know how to do. When someone tells me a story about another person, I check. He breathed, something in his chest unclenched. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding it.
"Okay," he said. "Okay," she said. Then her phone rang again. She looked at the screen. Her face shifted.
"It's my father," she said. She answered it. Marcus watched her face as she listened. He couldn't hear Henry's voice, only the murmur of it steady, measured, unhurried. Emily's expression moved through three different things in 30 seconds.
Surprise, something that might have been relief and then a sharp focused attention that he recognized from the way she walked a construction problem. He has the footage, she said. A pause from the equipment yard. Another pause. Dad, how do you have?
She stopped, listened. Something crossed her face that was almost a laugh and wasn't quite. Of course you own it. Of course you do. She closed her eyes briefly.
When? A pause. Tomorrow. All right, I'll be there. She hung up.