“I pulled your financials,” Vincent says coldly, setting documents on the coffee table. “Want to explain how you ‘can’t afford’ to help your mother?”
He flips open the documents. “Investment portfolio: one point four million. Combined annual income: approximately six hundred thousand. Liquid assets: seven hundred fifty thousand. And you charged your mother four hundred to five hundred fifty dollars a month to sleep in your guest room.”
The investigator’s pen scratches furiously across her notepad.
“Last month alone,” Vincent continues, his voice shaking with controlled fury, “you spent nearly four thousand on restaurants. And you charged Loretta fifty dollars for ‘her share’ of groceries.”
Deacon sinks onto the couch, his head in his hands.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he mumbles.
“You hit her,” Vincent says. “You struck the woman who worked herself sick so you could go to college. Because she asked your wife not to smoke around her damaged lungs.”
