The soft clink of lunchtime silverware and china filled the corner alcove of the bistro on Spring Street.

“It was a stupid prank by a junior analyst,” Cole said, smoothing the lapel of his gray wool suit.

“Someone got hold of my unlocked phone at the firm holiday party and thought it was funny.

It meant nothing.”

I sat back against the burgundy leather booth and looked at the half-empty glass of sparkling water between us.

“The photo was taken in an executive suite at the Plaza Hotel at eleven forty-seven on Christmas Eve.”

“You’ve become paranoid since the babies, Lauren.” He rested his forearms on the white tablecloth and leaned in.