I sat down.
“Does she work with Michael?”
“She used to.”
“How long?”
“Four years.”
I swore under my breath.
“Did he admit it?”
“Not voluntarily.”
Her voice sounded empty.
“I hired someone.”
“A private investigator?”
“Yes.”
I wouldn’t have expected that from Karen.
Apparently, neither had Michael.
“He told me I was being dramatic,” she continued. “Then my lawyer showed him the photographs.”
“Karen…”
“Four years, Alex.”
I closed my eyes.
“He was with her when my mother died.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“He was with her the weekend he told me he had an investor conference in Denver. He was sitting beside my mother’s hospital bed.”
The pain in her voice made me furious.
Not movie-scene furious.
Not punching-a-wall furious.
The colder kind.
The kind where you remember details.
“What do you need?”
Silence.
Then:
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I hate that answer.”
