The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
Grant’s charity galas.
The private donors.
The missing funds.
The women in the encrypted folders.
For three years, I had thought I was building a cage around my husband.
Instead, I had found the edge of a tunnel.
Voss touched the back of a chair.
“You need protection.”
“I already needed protection.”
“More.”
I almost smiled.
There is a point at which danger becomes so large it stops feeling personal. It becomes weather. Fire. Flood. Something impossible to negotiate with.
“Then protect the files,” I said.
“We can protect both.”
“Try.”
She looked at me as though she wanted to argue.
Then her phone rang.
She answered, listened, and her expression hardened.
“What is it?” I asked.
She ended the call.
“Grant disappeared.”
The hospital room fell silent.
Dr. Reed turned from the window.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“He cut his ankle monitor fifteen minutes ago. His car was found abandoned near the river.”
