Then another.

Then a series of emails between Victor and Olivia’s brother, Grant Marsh, laying out how money should be moved through a consulting firm with no staff, no physical location, and no genuine clients.

Victor kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

I watched his hands. His right thumb kept brushing his wedding band, which was still on his finger. Maybe he thought it made him look more sympathetic.

Maybe habit had simply outlasted his guilt.

Diane then projected the airport message he’d sent me.