“Good.” “Your business practices have.” And I watched the blood drain from his face, watched the reasonable-colleague performance collapse in an instant, because those four words told him that the thing he had been most afraid of, in the small hours of the night, for eighteen months, was not a private fear at all.

It was known.

It was documented.

It was, quite possibly, sitting in a folder in an office he would never be allowed to enter.

He had walked into this wedding believing he held the upper hand over his ruined ex-wife, and he was discovering, sentence by sentence, that he had in fact walked into the one room in Boston where every hidden thing he had done was already, quietly, known.

Chapter 10 — Three Million Eight Hundred Thousand