Page 157 of Over Her Dead Body

“Fine.”

I open the door and go inside. Reid follows.

I put the pharmacy bag on the kitchen counter and take the termination paperwork out of my bag. He notices it immediately. “They fired you.”

“My extraordinarily poor judgment.”

He picks up the first page, reads enough, and puts it back down. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I take the page back. “I was fired six hours ago. I think I’m still allowed.”

“It’ll be resolved.”

“Because you’re turning yourself in.”

He shrugs.

That tells me more than he intended.

Or exactly as much.

With Reid, the distinction has always been difficult.

“Michael told me Charles died during a break-in.”

Reid says nothing.

“He gave me the date.”

Still nothing.

“Same night you left our house for a delivery. The original painting ended up in Lisbon. The Whitakers still have the copy.”

“Interesting.”

One word. Enough.

“You stole the painting.”

“That’s the girl I know. Always assessing.”

“And Charles came home.”

“He wasn’t supposed to.”

That is the first detail he has confirmed.

“He recognized you. He knew you were my husband.”

I remember Charles Whitaker’s house. Dinner there. His hand on my back. Reid watching from across the room, then arguing with me in the car because I called it handling a client and he called it something else.

The painting on the wall.

Four million dollars hanging beside whiskey.

Reid noticing all of it.

“We fought,” he says. “Things didn’t go the way I intended.”