Helena set her novel on the cushion and drew a thick cream envelope from under the couch. “Eleven years ago, when your firm sat above a laundromat, I put my grandmother’s inheritance into it,” she said. “You never asked for the paperwork. You said thank you.” Nathan’s mouth went dry. She slid a document across the coffee table. Across the top it read Majority Shareholder Agreement, and beside her signature sat one number: fifty-six percent.

“I have known about Tiffany for five months,” she continued. “I also know every hotel room, every flight to Cape Cod, and every dollar you billed to Holloway Strategies to pay for them.” She turned one final page, and a column of figures ended in $214,000. Then the doorbell rang at one in the morning. Helena rose. “That will be Mr. Ortega,” she said. “He has been waiting for you to come home.”