The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long shadows across the bookshelves.

On the table next to her sat her laptop, its screen glowing in the dim room.

She didn’t look up when I entered.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

“Traffic on the turnpike was bad,” I said, walking over to the bar.

I poured myself a glass of scotch.

“Did you go to Maine today, Adrian?” she asked.

The glass clinked against the crystal decanter.

I kept my back to her for a second, forcing my breathing to remain steady.

“Why would I go to Maine?” I asked, turning around.

Celeste finally looked up.

Her face was pale, and a cold smile played on her lips.

She tapped a key on her laptop, and the screen flickered.

On the screen was a high-resolution photograph of my Mercedes parked outside Maren’s small shingled cottage in Maine.

The next image showed me standing on the porch, talking to Maren.

“A private investigator is a very useful expense,” Celeste said.

She took a slow sip of her Cabernet.