“You were supposed to see that picture on Christmas Eve, panic, and leave him divorce papers by morning.”

“Cole sent that text at eleven forty-seven p.m.,” I said.

“Cole was flat on his back in room four-twelve at the Plaza after four scotches,” Sierra said flatly.

“I took his phone off the mahogany nightstand, took the picture while he was passed out, and hit send.”

I stared at her small, carefully manicured hand resting near the sugar caddy.

“You sent it from his phone.”