“Did you know this?” I ask, but Izzy doesn’t answer me. She pushes up to her feet and eases in front of the marble vanity to appraise herself. I watch her as she runs the tap and cleans her face more thoroughly this time.

“What are you still doing here?” she asks after a moment, but she avoids my eyes, maybe ashamed of the way she looks. “God. Thought this was only supposed to happen in the morning.”

She rubs her swollen stomach and moans as she collapses onto the bed, and while I obviously don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant, she seems to be intentionally pulling out the theatrics. She wants me to leave. She doesn’t want to address what I’ve said about Simon, and I have no idea why.

I follow her into the bedroom and once she sits down on the edge of the bed, I show her the copy of Simon’s will I found. Her gaze takes a beat to focus, but when she makes out the large print at the top, her eyes widen and meet mine.

“Where did you get that?” she snaps.

“Found it downstairs.”

“Down...” Suddenly, she doesn’t look so weak anymore and jumps to her feet. “That was locked up. How’d you get the key?”

“I didn’t. I—”

“I had it locked in Simon’s desk. How’d you get in there?”

“I know this trick with a paper clip,” I say. “Look, you want to find out who really hurt Simon, right?”

She nods and groans as she sits back down.

I step closer. “Then this is all we need.”

Her eyes drop down to the document and she struggles to find her next words. It’s like she has to force herself to ask, “What are you talking about?”

“This is proof that Taylor had a reason to murder her father. Money. The most obvious motive ever. It’s just weird that the cops didn’t do anything about this.”

She takes the paper from my hand and skims it. “Simon modified it when he found out how far along the cancer was so that Taylor got control of his estate.”

I take it back, and briefly look over it again.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Simon Van Doren, sign, seal, publish and declare this instrument as my Last Will and Testament this seventh day of February.

She’s right. It was recently changed. Earlier this year.

“So you got nothing if he died?” I ask, the concept completely absurd to me.

“I didn’t want his money,” she says, but I find that hard to believe.

I stare at her, waiting for her to give me something more, but she just goes quiet, pensive.

And now the timing makes sense, why she waited until now to kill him. She could have killed her father before, but she waited until after he got engaged. That has to mean something.