I hated the idea.
But Rachel reminded me that evidence did not become useless just because I despised the person carrying it.
Sabrina agreed to meet at Rachel’s office.
Miles came with me because, as he put it, “someone needs to stop you from discovering whether a stapler is legally considered a weapon.”
When Sabrina arrived, I barely recognized her.
No makeup.
No tailored dress.
No confidence.
Her pregnancy was obvious.
She sat across from me and whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at her.
“For sleeping with my husband?”
“Yes.”
“For pretending to be my friend?”
“Yes.”
“For coming into my home?”
“Yes.”
“For touching my stomach while you were carrying his baby?”
Tears appeared in her eyes.
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
“Then don’t tell me you’re innocent.”
“I’m not.”
That answer surprised me.
She continued.
“I knew I was having an affair. I did not know he wanted you dead.”
Grant had told Sabrina our marriage was effectively finished.
According to him, we were living together only because my pregnancy was complicated and he was afraid a formal separation would destabilize me.
He claimed divorce papers would be filed after delivery.
He told her I planned to relocate to Boston.
I had never planned to move to Boston.
He told her Whitaker Urban Holdings was “our company.”
It was not.
He told her he controlled most of it.
He controlled none of it.
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