I walked into Mrs. H's office on the pretense of making a payment. Why she would think I'd walk in a payment when I had the information to make a bank transfer was beyond me. Perhaps she wanted to see my reaction to the contracted hit.
"How are you?" Mrs. H asked. "Is revenge sweet?"
"Not quite."
I took out the tablet, onto which I copied all the information I had about her and the failed attack on Jake.
"I think you should see this."
Experts say there are seven stages of grief. Mrs. H went through at least that many stages while she watched the forty-five minutes worth of material.
By the time she was done, she'd settled into a low-boiling rage that just barely allowed her to remain seated. Her eyes were wide. Her hands shook even as she had them clasped on the desktop.
"Why are you showing me this?" Mrs. H asked.
"Simple. I want to know who arranged my friend's accident."
"Who is your friend?"
