“Did you put the house under your company?” I asked.
He stammered. “My accountant—suggested—”
There it was.
Iris took the phone. “Mr. Holt, you are legally required to comply. Any interference will escalate this.”
Damon begged, “Please—tell her—I’ll apologize—therapy—whatever she wants—”
I took the phone back.
“You don’t get to call me a mutt and then panic when you realize I’m the one with the leash.”
His voice broke. “Is there any chance you’ll stop this?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll be fair. You’ll get exactly what the law says. Nothing more.”
I hung up.
A moment later, I got a text from an unknown number:
“He’s not telling you everything. Check the safe.”
