“I also had someone look into your recent bank transfers,” she added.

“You paid a private clinic in Boston for an expedited DNA panel.”

I set my glass down on the dark mahogany bar.

The wood felt cold under my palm.

“You are tracking my car, Celeste?” I asked.

“I am protecting our life, Adrian,” she said.

She stood up and smoothed her cream-colored wool trousers.

She walked over to the fireplace, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

“You went to Maine to see her.”

“I had questions that needed answers,” I said.

“About a past that is dead and buried,” Celeste said.

She stared into the flames, the orange light reflecting in her dark eyes.

“Maren Caldwell is a ghost.”

“She is the mother of my children,” I said.

Celeste laughed, a short, sharp sound that lacked any warmth.

“Those children are not yours, Adrian.”

“Your mother proved that years ago.”

“My mother lied,” I said.

I took a step toward her.

“The medical records were falsified by Lionel Mercer.”

Celeste did not look surprised.

She turned her head slightly, watching me over her shoulder.