“My name is Daniel Mercer,” he said. “The woman with your husband is my wife.”
The room seemed to tilt under my feet.
“What?”
“She told me she was in Boston tonight,” he continued. “I’ve been tracking this for six weeks. I hired a private investigator after I found hotel receipts on our joint card.” His gaze shifted toward my husband. “Your husband’s name is Andrew Bennett, right?”
I stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know more than I ever wanted to.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo—Andrew and the woman getting into his car outside a condo building. A timestamp from three weeks ago glowed at the bottom. Then another photo. And another.
My stomach twisted so tightly I thought I might be sick.
“I was planning to confront them outside,” Daniel said. “But tonight changed things.”
“Changed how?”
He glanced past me toward the restaurant entrance.
A woman in a charcoal suit had just walked in, flanked by two men. One carried a leather portfolio. The other had a badge clipped to his belt.
Daniel let out a slow, grim breath.
