The signature lines.
“You did give me the authorization forms.”
“Yes.”
My voice shook. “You watched me sign them.”
“Yes.”
He did not ask for forgiveness. Somehow, that made the truth more painful.
“What about the pills?”
His expression changed completely.
“Camille—”
“What were they?”
“Did you bring any with you?”
“Answer me.”
He moved toward me.
I stepped back.
He stopped at once.
“They were supposed to be magnesium and a low-dose sleep aid,” he said. “Your doctor recommended them after your panic attacks.”
“My doctor never spoke to me about medication.”
“He spoke to Reynolds.”
A cold certainty settled inside me.
“What doctor?”
Jasper named a physician I had met at two company charity dinners. He had never treated me.
“The pills made me sick.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“Not at first. When you started shaking, I sent one to a laboratory.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And you kept giving them to me.”
“No. I replaced them.”
I searched his face.
“The tablets looked identical.”
“I had a pharmacist make vitamin tablets in the same shape.”
“That sounds unbelievable.”
“It was difficult, not unbelievable.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Reynolds asked me every few days how you were reacting. I needed him to believe his plan was working.”
The same words again.
Buying time.
Pretending to cooperate.
Protecting me by deceiving me.
“You let me believe I was losing control of myself.”
“I tried to tell you to stop taking them.”
“You placed them beside my breakfast.”
“Because Reynolds had access to the house.”
Silence.
The rain whispered against the windows.
“What do you mean, access?”
Jasper glanced toward the ceiling.
“There are cameras here.”
Every instinct told me not to look around.
“Where?”
“I found one in the study and one above the kitchen doorway. There may be others.”
“Why didn’t you remove them?”
“Because then he would know I’d found them.”
“You could have taken me away.”
“I tried. The weekend trips. The visits to your aunt. Every time I suggested we leave, you said your father needed you nearby.”
A memory returned: Jasper standing beside an open suitcase, asking me to spend a month at the coast. I had accused him of avoiding my family.
“What happened to the real pills?” I asked.
“They’re in a bank deposit box with the lab report.”
“And the money?”
“Untouched.”
“Then give the evidence to the police.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”