For years, getting dressed for company events had meant asking Evan whether something was too formal, too bright, too much.
That afternoon, I didn’t consider his opinion once.
I chose a fitted dark green dress, simple gold earrings, and heels I had not worn since a wedding the previous fall.
Then I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.
I didn’t look angry.
I looked terrified.
“Whatever you find,” I whispered, “don’t let him convince you that you didn’t see it.”
Then I grabbed my purse and left.
Grant Holloway’s property sat forty minutes outside town on the edge of Lake Waverly.
Calling it a house would have been ridiculous.
It was a sprawling cedar-and-stone estate surrounded by oak trees, with terraces descending toward a private marina.
Cars lined the long circular drive.
Music floated from behind the house.
So much for the postponement.
A woman holding a tablet checked names beside the entrance.
“Name?”
“Brooke Mercer.”
She searched.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have a Brooke Mercer.”
“My husband is Evan Mercer.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“Oh.”
That single syllable frightened me.
Before she could say more, a tall man with silver at his temples stepped away from a group nearby.
“Everything all right, Diane?”
The woman looked uncomfortable.
“This is Brooke Mercer.”
His gaze moved to me.
“Mercer?”
