She hadn’t known how right she was.
I entered my office and closed the door.
For years, that room had been the safest place in my house.
Mahogany shelves.
Leather chairs.
Awards from development associations.
Photographs of buildings I had financed.
Framed magazine covers featuring my company, Keaton Development Group.
A silver photograph frame on my desk held our wedding picture.
Corinne and I were laughing in it.
I couldn’t remember what had been so funny.
I expected an emotional letter.
Accusations.
Maybe divorce papers.
Instead, the first page was a bank statement.
Then a hotel receipt.
Then an electronic transfer.
Everything was highlighted.
Everything was dated.
Charleston.
Nashville.
Savannah.
Atlanta.
Amounts.
Account numbers.
Merchant names.
Reservation dates.
I flipped faster.
A receipt for a suite in Charleston.
The suite where Tessa had slept nearby four nights earlier.
A restaurant bill from the second night of our trip.
