Chapter 3
"Pause it right there," I whispered to the empty bedroom.
My finger tapped the screen of my phone. The yacht video froze. The young woman's hand stayed locked on Daniel's chest. I zoomed in on her neck, searching for whatever the anonymous text wanted me to see.
A faint, purple bruise peeked out from beneath her gold chain. A hickey.
"Careful, Danny," I murmured. "Your Boston jury might see that."
I dragged the video progress bar back to the chat section.
"Counselor, what about the hotel deposit?" I read the scrolling text aloud.
I grabbed a legal pad from my vanity drawer. I wrote down the username. BusterAndMittens99.
I hit play, let it run for three seconds, and paused again.
"What if she checks my Uber app?" This one came from GoldenDuke_24.
I jotted it down.
I scrubbed forward. "Does she make you take them too?" The question about my wool socks.
Username: LunaTheMaineCoon.
I set the pen down. My pulse drummed a steady, cold rhythm against my ribs.
"Those aren't random internet trolls," I told my reflection in the mirror.
I grabbed my iPad from the nightstand and opened the contacts app, scrolling down to the shared directory for the firm's Partner Family Committee.
"Let's see who is taking your masterclass."
I tapped the search bar and typed in Buster.
A profile popped up. Greg and Sarah Miller. Pets: Buster and Mittens (Beagles).
"Hello, Greg," I noted, opening a new blank document. I typed his name.
I searched Duke.
Marcus and Whitney Reynolds. Pet: Duke (Golden Retriever).
"Marcus," I said, adding him to the list.
I didn't even need to search for the last one. I knew exactly who owned a massive Maine Coon named Luna.
"Paul," I whispered.
My mind snapped back to the firm's Memorial Day barbecue six months ago.
"He hasn't touched me since February, Maggie," Paul's wife, Eleanor, had sobbed into her plastic cup of Chardonnay. "He just rolls over and stares at his phone."
Daniel had swooped in right then.
"Give us a minute, Mags," he had said, placing a warm hand on Eleanor's shoulder. "Let me talk to her."
He had guided Eleanor toward the rose bushes. He had stayed with her for twenty solid minutes.
I stared at the name on my iPad screen.
"You weren't comforting her," I said, my voice dropping to a flat, hollow pitch. "You were doing damage control for your client."
Daniel had taught Paul how to hide the hotel receipts. Daniel had taught Paul how to set up the burner phone.
A sharp, mechanical ringing shattered the quiet of the bedroom.
I jumped. The oven timer.
I walked down the hall and into the kitchen. The digital clock on the stove flashed 10:30 PM.
I pulled open the hot oven door. A ceramic dish of beef stew bubbled inside. I had spent three hours that afternoon chopping carrots and searing chuck roast.
"Welcome home dinner," I mocked.
I grabbed two oven mitts and pulled the heavy dish out.
I didn't throw it away. I spooned the entire meal into a plastic Tupperware container, snapped the lid shut, and shoved it into the very back of the bottom refrigerator shelf, right behind a jar of pickled jalapeños.
I grabbed a small aluminum pot, filled it with tap water, and slammed it onto the front burner.
I tossed in a square of instant ramen.
"Dinner is served."
A low rumble vibrated through the floorboards.
I glanced at the microwave clock. 10:47 PM.
The garage door groaned upward.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened my cloud storage app.
Sync Complete: 3 Locations.
I locked the screen and shoved the phone back into my sweatpants. The sixty-five-inch television in the living room remained off, a black rectangle against the wall.
I dumped the noodles into a ceramic bowl. I didn't bother with a fork. I grabbed a pair of wooden chopsticks.
I carried the bowl to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
The heavy metal door connecting the garage to the mudroom clicked open.
"Maggie?" Daniel called out.
His heavy leather shoes thudded against the tile.
"I'm in the kitchen," I called back, staring down at the oily broth.
He turned the corner. He wore his navy wool suit, the jacket unbuttoned. He dropped his leather briefcase onto the floor by the pantry.
"You're eating now?" he asked, loosening his silk tie. "It's almost eleven."
I didn't look up. I twirled the noodles around my chopsticks.
"I got hungry."
He stepped closer. He leaned over the table. A sharp, floral scent hit my nose.
My perfume. The exact bottle I kept on my vanity.
You keep a spare bottle in your car console, his voice echoed in my head from the livestream.
"Sorry I'm so late," Daniel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm completely wiped."
I took a bite of the noodles. I chewed, swallowed, and finally lifted my eyes to meet his.
His skin carried a faint, sun-kissed glow. Not the pale, wind-chapped look of a man who had just spent nine hours in a Massachusetts winter.
"How was the trip, Danny?" My tone stayed perfectly even. No anger. No suspicion.
He smiled. A tired, loving, practiced smile.
"Brutal. Boston was a nightmare. Judge Gallagher kept us in chambers until eight. I barely made my flight out of Logan."
I nodded slowly.
"Did you get the merger sorted out?"
"Getting there," he lied, resting his elbows on the table. "Paul and Greg helped me review the briefs on the plane ride back. We're exhausted."
My jaw tightened. Then I forced the muscles to relax. A tiny, amused smirk crossed my lips.
"Paul and Greg," I repeated. "That's nice of them."
"Yeah, they're good guys." He reached across the table and covered my free hand with his. "I missed you today."
His skin felt warm. The platinum Patek gleamed under the dining room chandelier.
"I missed you too," I said, staring directly into his lying eyes.
"I'm going to take a quick shower," he announced, patting my hand before standing up. "Wash the airport off me. You coming to bed soon?"
"In a minute. I need to put on my wool socks."
Daniel froze.
His back was to me, halfway down the hall. He stopped walking. His shoulders went completely rigid.
"What did you say?" he asked.
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