Grant looked at me.
“You have not worked at Hartwell for years. Those records are confidential.”
“My family owns the company.”
“Your father runs it.”
“My shares still carry voting authority.”
“Not for much longer,” Tessa whispered.
Grant glared at her.
I took out my phone and called Mason.
He answered immediately.
“Camille? It’s two in the morning.”
“Come to Mercy St. Catherine.”
“What happened?”
“It concerns Tessa.”
Silence.
Then I heard him getting out of bed.
“I’m leaving now.”
Mason arrived twenty-three minutes later wearing sweatpants, an unbuttoned winter coat and sneakers without socks.
He pushed through the curtain.
When he saw his wife lying beside Grant, he stopped so suddenly that a security guard walked into him.
Nobody spoke.
Tessa covered her mouth.
“Mason—”
“How long?”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“How long?”
She looked at Grant.
“Almost ten months.”
