She pulled up the calendar on her computer screen, her eyes moving to the dates of the New York charge.
On those exact three days, Grant had told her he was in Pittsburgh renegotiating a warehouse lease for his firm.
The resort was famous for its private cabins and secluded lakeside views.
She reached for the office phone, her hand hovering over the plastic receiver before she let it drop back to the desk.
The managing director walked past the open door, carrying a roll of blue linen fabric under one arm.
“Are we still on schedule for the Franklin project?” the director asked, pausing in the doorway.
“Yes,” Caroline said, keeping her voice measured and light. “I am just finishing the final material costs now.”
The afternoon faded quickly, the autumn light failing before she had even finished the second invoice sheet.
By eight o’clock, the dining room of the Spruce Street townhouse was cold, despite the radiator clinking under the window.
Beatrice Mercer sat at the head of the mahogany table, fanning herself slowly with a glossy museum gala invitation she had found in the entryway.
