When Evan Hunter believed Hope had ripped him off after asking for an advance, Lindsay had sworn that Hope wasn’t the type of person who would ever steal. She opened her mouth to defend Hope again, but found herself speechless.

“It was a shame, too,” Melanie continued. “Sophie adored her, and she’d been through so much.”

“Sophie? Or Tara?”

“Tara. That’s how we met her. Tara’s mother was in prison for child abuse, and she spent her high school years in a group home. She had gotten counseling through a child advocacy nonprofit that we supported and then became a volunteer there. We thought we might be able to help her out, and then she went and stole from us. I even pressed Hitch to see if it might be a misunderstanding, but he was adamant that she had to go. All these years, it never even dawned on me that she’d do something violent.”

Lindsay felt a lump in her throat at the thought of Hope being physically abused by her own mother. She knew from her legal work how bad it had to be for prison to be involved. If Hope had slipped a few bucks from some rich guy’s wallet, it would only be because she desperately needed it.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Melanie. You’re a really good liar. You honestly sound like a woman who believes every word of the bullshit you’re spewing. There’s only one problem: Alex told someone that he killed your husband, and, more importantly, why. And we have his phone records. We know he called you. You didn’t want him to confess.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to hit rewind and start over again. She had said too much. Melanie was going to walk out of this bathroom, and she’d never get a second chance.

But Melanie stayed put, looking down at her designer heels, her shoulders slumped. When her gaze returned to Lindsay, the color had drained from her face. “Is this some stunt you have planned for trial, or do you have actual proof that that man was the one who killed Hitch?”

“He told everything to his sister—one of your husband’s victims.”

“Victim? What are you even talking about? And you think this man also confessed to me? I would have gone straight to the police.”

Lindsay heard a low male voice on the other side of the door, followed by Ellie Hatcher’s. As the door slowly cracked open, she made out the end of Ellie’s sentence: “At least let me.”

“Is everything all right, Ms. Locke?” the professor called out over Ellie’s shoulder. “The reception has begun.”