Vanessa was still in the living room, still in the black gown, an untouched glass of wine on the table beside her, as though she had spent the whole night composing herself.

“How is Maria?” she asked, with carefully performed concern, as Daniel walked in.

He did not answer the question.

He placed his phone on the table between them, and quietly activated the recording function, and then he sat down across from the woman he had almost married.

“I know about Andrew,” he said.

Vanessa went very still.

“I know about the payments.

And I know about the shell company.” Her face hardened, the warmth draining out of it, and what remained was the cold, flat thing he had glimpsed for one second in the hallway.