Whatever was happening, it involved Julian Hawthorne, this mystery man, and the woman Ethan loved. And he was done waiting for someone else to explain it.
Three days later Ethan stood in the 48th-floor offices of Hawthorne Capital in Midtown, lying his way past security with a fake delivery badge. The receptionist finally relented after he said, “Tell Mr. Hawthorne it’s about Lena Moreau. Tell him the courier from Locust Valley needs ten minutes.”
Julian was waiting in his corner office, Central Park glittering behind him like a private painting. The same silver-framed photograph sat on the credenza.
“You knew I’d come,” Ethan said.
“I gave it fifty-fifty.” Julian gestured to a chair. “Sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
Ethan remained standing. “Start with why you have my wife’s picture.”
Julian exhaled, the sound of a man who’d rehearsed this moment for months. “I’m not sleeping with your wife, Mr. Caldwell. I’m not threatening her. I’m not blackmailing her.” He opened a drawer, withdrew a thick folder, and slid it across the desk. “But what I’m about to tell you is going to sound insane. I have proof if you’ll let me show you.”