“Not voluntarily.”
Her voice sounded empty.
“I hired someone.”
“A private investigator?”
“Yes.”
I wouldn’t have expected that from Karen.
Apparently, neither had Michael.
“He told me I was being dramatic,” she continued. “Then my attorney showed him photographs.”
“Karen…”
“Four years, Alex.”
I closed my eyes.
“He was with her when my mother died.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“He was with her the weekend he told me he had an investor conference in Denver. I was sitting beside my mother’s hospital bed.”
The pain in her voice made me furious.
Not movie-scene furious.
Not punch-a-wall furious.
The colder kind.
The kind where you remember details.
“What do you need?”
Silence.
Then:
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I hate that answer.”
“Still okay.”
She let out something between a laugh and a sob.
“I’m sitting on my kitchen floor.”
“Why?”
“Because I dropped a wineglass and somehow sitting down seemed easier than cleaning it up.”
