Chapter Eight
Townes
He had been a man who solved problems through private action for so long that the experience of solving one alongside his wife was disorienting in the best possible way.
She ran the investigation the way she ran a project site, with structured precision, no wasted motion, and an attention to pattern that he genuinely admired.
He had always admired that about her—the quality of her mind, the way it moved through complexity without losing the thread.
He had married her, in part, because she was the most genuinely intelligent person he had ever been alone with, and she made him want to think better.
He had spent two years protecting her from complications and called it management and it was, he now understood with piercing clarity, the opposite of respect.
He hired Gareth Webble, a former forensic accountant who had moved into private investigation, not to dig into Winona but to trace Madrigal Merrill's movements and access points. It was Danaka who, characteristically, thought to pull the visitor log from the executive suite.
"Your building tracks swipe-card access," Danaka mentioned one evening, sitting at the Carrington kitchen table with her laptop and what Townes was starting to think of as her litigation face. "Every visitor, every time. The logs are kept for ninety days."
He had not thought of this. He pulled the log from his firm's security manager with a brief and carefully worded explanation about a client access issue.
The log showed that Madrigal Merrill had badged into the executive suite on a Thursday afternoon five weeks prior, at 1:14 PM—while he was in a partner meeting that ran from 1:00 to 2:30 PM.
She had been let in by a junior assistant who confirmed, when Townes spoke to her, that Madrigal had said she was leaving some documents for the meeting.
The assistant had escorted her only as far as the suite door.
She'd had eighteen minutes alone in the executive suite.
His file cabinet was in the suite, not in his private office.
Gareth Webble came back with his report four days later.
Madrigal had been photographed in the vicinity of three locations where Townes had conducted legitimate business meetings over the previous month—including the restaurant visible in the photograph, where Townes had met with Brycen Henley and two other colleagues for a working lunch.
Madrigal's presence was not coincidental.
She had, Gareth believed, tracked his calendar through information available in client communications—his assistant's email signatures, which included calendar links for booking purposes—and positioned herself within range.
The hand on the lapel photograph had been taken outside the Merrill Gallery, which Townes had visited legitimately to review a potential art-acquisition investment for another client.
He had run into Madrigal in the lobby. She had put her hand on his lapel, and he had stepped back immediately—but not before whoever she'd positioned outside had clicked.
"She planned all of it," Winona said, looking at the report.
"Yes."
"She took weeks to engineer something that looked like an affair."
"Yes."
Winona was quiet, reading. Then, "She's hosting an event at the gallery next Friday. A client reception—it's been on the social calendar for a month."
"I saw it."
"I want to go."
He looked at her. He understood immediately what she meant and felt two things simultaneously, the protective instinct—I don't want her to have to walk into that room—and the recognition that Winona Carrington had never required or wanted his protection from the things she chose to do.
She required his honesty and his presence, which were two things he had not given her and now could.
"I'll be there," he offered. "Right beside you."
For the first time in a very long time, he watched something in her face unlock—not a smile, not yet. Something smaller and more valuable. A door, slightly open.
"Good, I would like that" she said.