In this shot, and this shot only, she stared directly into the camera. Her pale eyebrows pressed up and together, distressed. Her eyes were wide. To Marshall her gaze looked frightened, even distraught, but the rest of her expression was not visible; the young man at work between her legs had his hand over her mouth. Hard enough for his fingers to indent her cheek, for his palm to flatten her nose.

“That’s Trey’s hand.” Bree’s voice had almost no inflection. She was all the way across the room, but she knew which picture he’d lifted. “I know my husband’s back, his fingers. That’s him.”

Marshall kept his face as neutral as possible.

On the phone she’d asked how she could stay married. Looking at the picture, he understood the question. But he was a cop, a realist who worked for lawyers now. He couldn’t help but see what would unfold if she did leave Trey. He knew how these things played out.

Trey was a Cabbat. The family had so much money, so many connections, and they had never fully warmed to Bree. God, they loved her children, though, and that kind of family was used to getting its way. If Trey was hurt enough, angry enough, they would take everything from her. They would take her kids.

Of course, she had these pictures. Good blackmail material, if she could bring herself to fight that dirty. He should keep the extra copies someplace safe, use them for her if he had to. Make Trey back down. Except as soon as he came up with that plan, he saw the flaw. The pictures had small, soft teeth. First, they didn’t show his face, so even if she was willing to release them, Trey could lie. Or worse, he could admit everything. Including Bree’s part in Spencer’s murder.

“Well?” she asked. “What do I do?”

He kept his expression neutral, but she knew him so well that his lack of reaction was telling. Her face crumpled back into tears, and her hands moved over Robert, restless.