“Then what changed?”
He drew a slow breath.
“I checked on you from a distance.”
“Three months ago, I had a dinner meeting in Chicago with a client. Marcus was two tables away with a woman. He wasn’t hiding it well. He held her hand across the bread basket.”
Every warm thing inside me turned cold.
“I hired someone,” Peter said. “I wanted to be sure I wasn’t misreading it. I wasn’t. Weeks of photographs. Restaurants. A hotel. He kept the same routine every Thursday.”
“Marcus was two tables away.”
“Thursdays,” I echoed.
Marcus’s “late meetings” and his locked phone in the garage.
“I confronted him at his office,” Peter went on. “I told him what evidence I had. I said he could tell you himself, file cleanly, and spare Chloe the ugliness. Or I’d deliver every page of it to your front door.”
“So he chose the divorce,” I said. “He chose the story about growing apart?”
