chapter Two

“Say it again.”

“I said I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Moretti.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“It’s a typo.” Elena kept her eyes on his face and her feet planted on the grass. The last mourners had drifted toward the cars. Sofia hung back by a tree, gripping her phone like a weapon.

Alexander Moretti was taller than she’d expected. His charcoal suit was cut so well that every other black suit at the burial looked rented. He had grey eyes and a thin scar through his left eyebrow that she decided not to look at. A watch with a worn leather strap sat on his wrist. He didn’t fidget, check it, or glance at her mouth. She had met senators who couldn’t stand still for ten seconds, and this man looked like he could stand there until spring.

“You called Harold Kessler at six-forty,” she said.

“I did.”

“My father was alive at six-forty.”

“Was he?” He said it gently, which made it worse. “Did anyone tell you how long he’d been in that chair when Mrs. Dunn found him?”

Her stomach dropped. She kept her face still, the same face she used when a reporter asked about a leaked memo. “Answer the question. How did you know?”

“We had dinner at six-thirty. He never arrived. Your father was never late. Not once in six years.” He paused. “So I called the one person who’d know why.”

“Six years of dinners.”

“Monthly. First Thursday.”

“My father hated dining out. He ate soup at his desk.”

“He ate very well with me.” The corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile. “He liked the veal.”

She wanted to hit him. She wanted it so badly her fingers curled. Instead, she took one step closer, and the heel of her shoe sank into the soft ground, and she had to put a hand on his forearm to keep from tipping over. Wool. Warm underneath. She let go like he’d burned her.

“Careful,” he said.

“Don’t help me.”

“I wasn’t.” He nodded at her shoe. “I was warning you about the grass.”

Sofia made a small noise behind her, half cough and half laugh. Elena didn’t turn around.

“I’ll have divorce papers on your desk by Monday,” she said.

“Draft them well. I’ll read every page.”

“You’ll sign every page.”

“We’ll see.” He buttoned his jacket. “Kessler’s office at two. Don’t go alone.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking into a room.”

“I know. I’ve read about every race you’ve run. You’ve never lost one. It’s irritating.”

“That’s called stalking.”

“It’s called research.”

“Same thing.”

“Only if you’re not good at it.” He tilted his head toward her, a small, formal nod, like they’d just closed a deal. Then he walked away across the grass and didn’t look back once. She watched him go and hated that she was watching.

“Okay,” Sofia said, arriving at her shoulder. “I’m going to need a minute.”

“No.”

“He’s very good-looking.”

“Sofia.”

“I’m just saying it’s a plot twist I wasn’t prepared for.”

“Get the car.”

Kessler’s office smelled like old paper and the lemon polish his assistant used on everything. Elena arrived at 1:56, alone, and found Alexander already there. He sat in the leather chair by the window, one ankle crossed over his knee, a tiny espresso cup balanced on his palm. He looked like a man waiting for a table at a restaurant he owned.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re four minutes early. I’m eleven.”

“Is that a competition?”

“It is now.”

Harold Kessler cleared his throat from behind his desk. He was seventy, with a bow tie and a face that had spent forty years keeping secrets for other people. Today it looked tired. “Elena. Please sit.”

She sat. She crossed her legs, folded her hands on her knee, and didn’t look to her left.

“Your father’s will is short,” Kessler said. “Everything goes to you. The house, the investment accounts, the holdings, the entire estate.”

“Fine.”

“Under one condition.”

Elena closed her eyes for a second. “Of course.”

“You must remain married to Alexander Moretti for ninety days from today. If either of you files for dissolution before that, the estate transfers to a charitable trust and you receive nothing.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It’s a condition.”

“It’s blackmail from the grave.” She turned in her seat and finally looked at Alexander. He was drinking his espresso. “Did you know about this?”

“Not the details.”

“The ninety days.”

“No.”

“But you knew we were married.”

“I signed the license, Elena. Yes.” He set the cup down without a sound. “So did you.”

“I did not.”

“Someone did. Kessler has the original.”

She turned back to Kessler. “I’ll contest.”

“You can.” He folded his hands. “Contesting freezes the estate. Every account. That includes the payroll, the property taxes, and the security contract.”

“What security contract? My father had a housekeeper and a gardener.”

Kessler’s eyes flicked to Alexander. Alexander’s eyes flicked to Kessler. It took less than a second. She had spent ten years reading rooms for a living, and what she read was two men who had agreed in advance not to say something.

“What security,” Elena said again.

“Nothing you need to worry about today,” Kessler said.

“I’m going to need you to do better than that, Harold.”

“There’s one more item.” He pulled a cream-colored envelope from his drawer. The flap was sealed with a smear of dark red wax, which was the kind of thing her father would do, and it made her chest ache before she could stop it. “A letter. Handwritten. He instructed me to read it aloud with both of you present.”

“Give it to me. I’ll read it myself.”

“He was specific. Aloud. By me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Kessler hesitated. “I think he didn’t trust you to read it alone.”

That one stung, because it was true. She’d have taken it into the hall, read it standing up, and decided what the room was allowed to know. She sat back. Her hands had gone cold in her lap.

Kessler broke the wax with a letter opener. He unfolded two pages, put on his glasses, and looked at Elena over the rims.

“I’ll read it exactly as written.”

“Go ahead.”

He cleared his throat. “Elena.” His voice was steady, but the paper trembled in his fingers. “If Harold is reading this to you, I did not die of a heart attack.”

The room went completely still.

Elena didn’t breathe. She turned her head, slowly, toward the window.

Alexander hadn’t moved. He wasn’t looking at the letter or at Kessler or at her. He was looking at the door, steady and quiet, the way you look at an exit you’ve already counted.

“Keep reading,” he said.

Kessler swallowed and found his place on the page.

“And the man sitting beside you already knows who did.”