“He joined the board of the county children’s shelter yesterday,” Liam said, his voice dropping to the low, flat tone he used when he was delivering a difficult diagnosis. “He pledged ten thousand dollars on behalf of Apex.”
“He is trying to raise the company profile for the winter bids,” I said, holding my warm mug. “The school board contract is up next month.”
“He is building a wall of public opinion, Nora,” Liam said. He stopped tapping his pen and pointed it at me. “If you try to audit him now, you are not just attacking your husband. You are attacking a local benefactor.”
“The business is just going through a seasonal crunch,” I said. “He is under pressure.”
Liam looked at me for three long seconds. He did not say another word, but he picked up his pen and began tapping it again.
By seven o’clock, the living room on Elm Street was cold. Ethan sat in the armchair by the window, his silk tie loosened by an inch, though his collar remained buttoned. He was reading the local weekly newspaper, his thumb smoothing the silk of his tie over and over.
