“I told you not to interrupt.”
He turned a page.
“Sixty-one calls from Emily’s number to you. Fourteen emails. Nine certified letters.”
My mouth went dry.
“Every call was forwarded to a voicemail box nobody has opened in a year. The administrator of your company phone plan is Ashley Rourke.”
“Every email hit a filter rule built inside your own account. The rule is named ‘E.’”
“The certified letters were signed for at your front desk. Green cards. Signature: A. Rourke.”
“I’ll triage it,” I whispered.
My mouth tasted like pennies.
“There’s more,” said Ray.
“The man in your photographs is Rick Brooks, Emily’s cousin, a high school band teacher in Macon. The picture was cropped from a family barbecue.”
“Your coworker witness was paid forty-five hundred dollars by a company called Rourke Family Holdings.”
“The ninety thousand missing from your operating account never went missing. It was moved. To accounts belonging to Frank Rourke and Dana Rourke. Her uncle and her cousin.”
