I looked through the window.

“My mother died at 11:43 p.m. Neither of them came.”

“I’ll call you.”

That night Preston returned to our apartment shortly after eleven.

He found me in the library.

He poured himself bourbon.

“You embarrassed Shelby today.”

I turned.

“I embarrassed her?”

“She’s trying to handle this gracefully.”

“How noble.”

“Our marriage has been over for years.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“We grew apart.”

“And Shelby happened to fall into the empty space?”

His jaw tightened.

I stepped closer.

“Were you sleeping with her before my mother died?”

He looked away.

My heartbeat changed.

“She helped you, didn’t she?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I found the earring, Shelby told me not to confront you.”

Silence.

“When I smelled perfume on your shirt, she said grief was making me paranoid.”

He drank.

“When I suggested hiring someone to see where you were going at night, she told me I would destroy my marriage.”

Then Preston made the mistake that changed everything.

“That wasn’t my idea.”

I froze.

“What wasn’t?”

His expression shifted.

Too late.

“So it was hers?”

“Vivienne—”

“She wasn’t just sleeping with you.”

My voice trembled.

“She was managing me for you.”

I walked upstairs.

At 9:17 the next morning, Elias sent me an attachment.

One sentence.

You need to see the date.

It was an invoice from the Carlyle Grand Hotel.

Suite 1408.

Two guests.

Champagne.

Dinner for two.

A bottle of Château Margaux.

Room service at 10:54 p.m.

Preston’s corporate card.

And the date?

The night my mother died.

I sat on the edge of my bed until sunrise.

I did not cry.

I built a timeline.

Three days later, Elias came to my office carrying a gray folder.

“I found more.”

“How much more?”

He did not answer immediately.

That frightened me.

He placed the folder on my desk.

Inside were photographs.

Preston entering the Carlyle Grand.

Shelby arriving eleven minutes later.

Photographs from restaurants.

Parking garages.

A house in Connecticut.

Eight months, they had claimed.

The evidence went back fourteen.

My fingers stopped.

“Fourteen months?”

“Yes.”

“That means they were together six months before my mother died.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“Why lie about eight?”

“That bothered me too.”

He placed another page in front of me.

It was a corporate access record.

Shelby Monroe.

Blackwell & Hart Holdings.

Executive floor.

11:18 p.m.

Two nights before my mother died.

“What was she doing there?”

“We don’t know.”

“My mother’s office was on that floor.”

“I know.”

I looked up.

Elias’s expression was grim.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Your mother contacted me eleven days before she died.”