The Rise Of The Betrayed Wife
Maybe it was the desperation in her eyes, the way her hands had shaken when she'd shown me her phone, the precision of every detail she'd typed out.
I sat at my desk Monday afternoon staring at the file, trying to make sense of it and coming up empty.
At two thirty, James Porter, my head of security, the man I trusted more than almost anyone to handle situations that required discretion and absolute reliability, knocked on my office door.
“You wanted me to monitor Reid's accounts,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
I nodded and gestured to the chair across from my desk. He sat down and opened his laptop, positioning it so we could both see the screen.