Three days later Spencer had stood beside me at the foundation gala, his palm resting on the small of my back while executive board members murmured their condolences.

I drew the foundation audit ledger closer to the yellow glow of the desk lamp.

Rosalind had signed every foundation funding voucher herself, with her own private executive authorization code.

She hadn’t just covered up Spencer’s diagnosis to protect his standing as the corporate heir.

She had bought my public blame with corporate foundation money, keeping Spencer’s executive reputation spotless while I spent six years absorbing the silent sympathy of board members’ wives.

I picked up a pen and wrote three dates on a yellow legal pad: August fourteenth, September twenty-first and October fifth.