tightens.
The clients exchange a glance.
Brooke’s voice drops into something ugly. “You’re humiliating yourself.”
“No,” I say. “I’m correcting the record.”
Mr. Reese opens his folder and places several printed photographs on the entry table. Cars in the driveway. Caterers unloading boxes. Brooke on the deck with photographers. A drone shot taken from the continue reading …
