When I nearly lost a major hotel contract, Rebecca rebuilt the presentation overnight.

When Eric mocked my obsession with paper records, Rebecca laughed and said, “One day those binders will save us.”

I trusted her completely.

Which was why Eric’s expression frightened me.

Price asked, “When was the missing drive last seen?”

I opened our internal report.

“April seventeenth last year.

Rebecca signed it out.”

Eric looked down.

I stopped breathing.

“Why?”

The record said:

ARCHIVE REVIEW — E. BROOKS REQUEST

I stared at it.

My name was nowhere on the request.

Price leaned closer.

“Did you authorize your husband to review company archives?”

“No.”

Eric stood.

“That is not what happened.”

Price said, “Sit down.”

“I was helping Natalie.”

“With what?”

“She had asked me about potential investors.”

I turned toward him.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“When?”

He hesitated.

“Last spring.”

“Where?”

“At dinner.”

“Which dinner?”

“Natalie, for God’s sake.”

“No.

Which dinner?”

He stared at me.

Because he knew what my father had taught me.

If someone gave you a story, make them give you the details.

Liars hated details.

Price repeated, “Which dinner?”

Eric sat back.

“I don’t remember.”

I looked at the archive record again.

Rebecca’s name.

My husband’s request.

My missing drive.

Something inside me began to tilt.

I called Rebecca.

No answer.

I called again.

Straight to voicemail.

“She always answers,” I whispered.

Price looked at me.

“Where is she?”

“She was supposed to be at the studio by nine.”

It was almost eleven.

I opened our office security app.

Rebecca’s keycard had entered the building at 7:12 a.m.

There was no exit.

I called the studio.

My receptionist answered immediately.

“Brooks Design.”

“Jenny, it’s Natalie.

Is Rebecca there?”

A pause.

“No.”

“She badged in at seven.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“Check her office.”

Another pause.

Then footsteps.

Then silence.

“Ms.

Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“Her office is empty.”

“Is her laptop there?”

“No.”

My chest tightened.

“Her purse?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

Jenny lowered her voice.

“There’s an envelope on her desk.”

“What envelope?”

“It has your name on it.”

I reached the studio twenty-five minutes later with Detective Price behind me.

Eric remained at the house with another officer.

Marissa had asked to come.

I said no.

I needed one space in my life that did not contain my husband’s mistress.

Brooks Design Studio occupied the second floor of a converted textile warehouse.

Exposed brick.

Tall steel windows.

Long worktables.

Material libraries organized by color and texture.

It had taken me nine years to build.

Not the way people liked to say “build” when they meant start.

I had actually built it.

Client by client.

Invoice by invoice.

Mistake by mistake.

I had slept on sample sofas during hotel installs.

I had negotiated freight claims from emergency rooms.

I had driven six hours in snow because a marble supplier delivered the wrong stone.

This company was mine in the deepest possible sense.

And someone had been inside it.

Rebecca’s office door stood open.

The envelope lay in the center of her desk.

My name was written across it.