It did not fit the pattern of a man spending money on a mistress.

It was too large, too clean, too deliberately hidden even from his own hidden accounts.

And when my people finally traced who sat behind Kestrel Holdings, I understood that my husband was not only a liar and a thief.

He was also, without the faintest idea of it, somebody’s mark.

It reframed everything, that two-million-dollar wire, though it would take Roderick weeks to feel the full weight of it.

Because it meant the intern in the delivery room had not been a random cruelty, a middle-aged man’s ordinary affair with a younger woman.