printed on the kitchen table. Loosening his tie, he greeted the smell of dinner with, “Something smells good.”
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“Chicken.”
He searched the fridge. “Where’s the mustard?”
“Second shelf.”
Once he found it, I asked, “Who is Rachel Morgan?”
He paused with the refrigerator open, barely long enough to notice. Yet the hesitation answered me before anything else did. After closing it, he said, “Claire.”
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I waited while he rubbed his forehead. “You went through my phone?”
“No.”
“My email?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“You should probably be more concerned about the question than the method.”
He studied me, plainly surprised. He must have anticipated tears or shouting, perhaps a breakdown he could patiently manage. Instead, I sat opposite a yellow legal pad and transactions arranged in date order. That did not mean I felt
