“Or,” I said, dropping my voice, “was the plan to keep the charade going just until the contract closed, and then deal with the Roslyn problem?” His head snapped up in terror.

“You read the extended logs.” I didn’t confirm it.

I didn’t need to.

He thrashed in the net after that, twisting the truth until it snapped — the thirty-five thousand had been “a business maneuver to keep her compliant,” the hotels were “off-site collaboration,” he’d been “managing a crisis.” Then, exhausted by his own gymnastics, he slumped back and made the offer he’d clearly rehearsed in the car: I could keep the house, take the majority of the savings, even a slice of his founder’s shares — if I’d only call off the lawyers and give him one private chance to fix it.

I looked at him for a long moment.

“Warner.