breakfast in bed, a perfect omelet and fresh orange j

cold, clear-eyed calm. He thought I was a naive girl from the wron

n, I was a community organizer. I knew how to find information, h

r Capitol Hill,

d with old yearbooks I found in the attic, dusty relics from his prep school days.

took me hours, but I found the digital breadcrumbs. Hidden photo albums, tagg

Brooke the summer after their high school graduation. The antique locket he gave me for

d memory. I wasn't his new love; I was her shadow, a sta

ell into place wh

avor," I said, kee

ara. What's wrong? Yo

husband, a former Marine named David, ran a privat

to someone. Federal pr

," she said, no

ompiled by David' s firm. It was all there: Peterson's reputation, his predatory behavior, the whispers of

rother. David' s sources confirmed they' d met tw

't a drunken fantasy. It

gone. The hurt was still there, a dull ache deep i

d and har

ficing a pawn. He had no id