“No,” I said. “I’m removing my name from the illusion you built yourself.”

I ended the call before he could reshape panic into emotion.

Chapter 8 — A Woman Who Fears the Record

Two weeks later, Beatrix arrived at Winslow’s office without an appointment. I agreed to meet her, because Winslow believed conference rooms and witnesses were valuable.

She entered as though she still controlled the atmosphere. Camel coat. Pearls. Perfect hair. Eyes bright with fury. She studied the walnut table and framed cityscape as if the furniture had personally offended her.

“You would really do this to your own husband,” she said before sitting. “You’d throw a family into the street over one difficult evening.”

I folded my hands on the table. “One difficult evening.”