Page 17 of Trail of Betrayal
“Come in,” I say, voice as warmly as I can muster.
She steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind her. The reckoning begins.
Chapter 8
Lawrence stands by the couch, a statue carved from panic. His face drains of color when our eyes meet—a white flag raised too late. He swallows hard; his Adam’s apple climbs and falls like it’s trying to escape.
“I believe we have things to discuss,” I say, steady while my pulse drums my wrist. I twist my watch once, twice. Control.
Isabella looks between us, comprehension hardening. She sets her coffee on the console beside a rooftop photo of me and Lawrence. A dark drop blooms on the wood. She doesn’t apologize.
“What is this?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
“This,” Lawrence says with a laugh that shatters between us, “is a misunderstanding.” Charm frayed, hands up. “Veronica, baby, let me explain.”
“Please do,” I say, leaning on the doorframe, crossing one ankle over the other. “Start with March fourteenth.”
He blinks. “I—”
“Midtown client dinner,” I supply. “Uber to The Penrose at nine. High Line Hotel, room 418, at eleven-thirty.”
Color deserts him. “You were spying on me?”
“You taught me how to verify,” I say. “I took notes.”
I move to the island, pour a finger of whiskey, don’t offer any. “April second—‘late strategy session’—shows up as a two-person charge at Le Coucou. The soufflé is excellent, right, Isabella?”
She flinches at her name, eyes dropping.
“April twenty-third. May eighth. May nineteenth.” I tick them off. “All those nights you were ‘in the zone.’”
“We were working,” Lawrence says. “Most of the time—”
“Don’t.” Isabella’s voice is soft, clean. She steps away from him.
He turns on her, betrayed. “You said we’d figure it out if we got caught.”
“I said a lot,” she says. “So did you.”
I set my glass down. “I needed proof. So I dug. Texts. Receipts. Your phone’s ‘Do Not Disturb’ schedule—the one that turns on exactly when hers does. Building access logs, too. You scanned out four minutes after she did. Five separate nights.”
“Fuck, Veronica, that’s invasive.”
“And you invaded my trust,” I say. The laugh that escapes me is small and cold.
Isabella’s shoulders slacken, defensiveness shedding like a coat. “Not only did you know at dinner, but that was the entire point of tonight,” she says.
“Yes,” I answer. “I wanted to watch you both together.”
Lawrence tries to rally. “I can explain everything.”
“Great,” I say. “Explain why you saved her number as ‘Mike Accounting,’” I swipe, “why your calendar ‘strategy block’ includes a room charge at the Hilton,” swipe, “and why an Uber driver reviewed you two for ‘great conversation—very affectionate.’”
Isabella goes still.Her eyes flick toward the phone, landing on the Hilton receipt.“You told me you needed space to think that night.”
“Come on, Iz. You knew what we were doing,” he says.
“Did I?” she asks, voice rising. “You told me she was cold. Distant. That you were basically over.”
