Angel’s expression hardened for a breath, then smoothed back into the polished mask of charity. “Then perhaps you should let the town see what charity looks like,” she said conversationally. She took a step closer to James and extended a small leather folio. “I thought you might like to look over some notes. It’s the kind of transparency we all crave.”
James’ hand trembled when he reached for the folio. As his fingers brushed the leather Angel’s gaze found mine in a slow, dangerous way. “Open it,” she said to him.
He did.
The papers inside were cleanly printed pages — a faux-letterhead, an apparent confession, bank transfers mapped like a spider’s web. The design was calculated: suspicion paints faster than proof. James’ face went the color of old money. I could see the old rumor-thread
