Maren looked at the bill, then back at me. She adjusted the twins, picked up her bag of cans, and walked away. I watched her until the dust swallowed her silhouette.
I didn’t drive home. I dropped Tessa at our Belle Meade mansion, making an excuse about an emergency board call, and drove aimlessly for hours. The image of those white-blond curls haunted me. By nightfall, I dialed Carl Denning, the private investigator who had handed me the file that destroyed my marriage.
He didn’t answer. I called three more times. Finally, at 11:42 PM, my phone buzzed.
“Carl, I need the original—”
“Rowan, listen to me,” Carl’s voice was a frantic, breathless rasp. The sound of a roaring engine echoed behind him. “You’re marrying a demon, Rowan. I didn’t know how deep it went. The Whitmores… they own everyone.”
“Carl, what are you talking about? Are those twins mine?”
