She looked down at the folder again. “Did you tell anyone?”
“My sister. My father. An attorney.”
“Your father knows?” Her expression changed. “Daniel, how could you humiliate me like that?”
I stared at her. “You left our marriage, and you're angry that I asked my family for help?”
“You could have kept it private until we talked.”
“We did talk. You just didn't like my answer.”
Her phone vibrated. She glanced at her purse. It rang again, the bright, familiar tone she used for favorite contacts. She pulled it halfway out, caught my expression, and stopped. I saw Ryan Whitaker's name glowing across the screen.
“Why is Ryan calling you?” I asked.
“He's checking in.”
“Why?”
“Because he's our friend.”
“He hasn't called me today.”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“It might not.”
She silenced the call. Almost immediately a message appeared above the missed-call notification. She tried to slide the phone back into her purse, but I'd already seen enough to make out the beginning of the preview: Did he sign anything? Please call before you talk about—
I felt the room narrow. “Before you talk about what?”