“What?”
“She told me she was in Boston tonight,” he said. “I’ve been following this for six weeks. I hired a private investigator after I found hotel receipts on our joint card.” His eyes cut 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 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 date stamp from three weeks ago glowed at the bottom. Then another photo. Then another.
My stomach clenched so hard I thought I might actually be sick.
“I was going to confront them outside,” Daniel said. “But tonight changed.”
“Changed how?”
He looked past me toward the restaurant entrance.
A woman in a charcoal suit had just walked in with two men behind her. One of them was carrying a leather portfolio. The other had a badge clipped to his belt.
Daniel exhaled once, grimly.
