“Subject: Whitlock v. Whitlock – Supplemental Evidence of Fraud,” Julian muttered as he typed.

“Sent,” he said a moment later.

The laptop screen reflected in his eyes.

“Now we wait for the fallout,” Julian said.

The car turned south onto Tenth Avenue.

The warehouse districts of Chelsea looked dark under the rain clouds.

We neared the block of the townhouse.

It was a discreet, four-story brick building with black iron railings.

Thomas pulled the sedan over to the curb across the street.

He turned off the engine, leaving the wipers on low.

“There is Celeste’s sports car,” I whispered, pointing.

A sleek red convertible was parked illegally near a fire hydrant.

The convertible top was dotted with raindrops.

Suddenly, the front door of the townhouse flew open.

A figure stood in the doorway, illuminated by the warm hall light.

It was Celeste, her blonde hair damp from the rain.

She was clutching a designer travel bag to her chest.

Behind her, Bennett appeared in the doorway, his face flushed and angry.

He grabbed her arm.

We could not hear their voices over the sound of the rain, but their gestures were violent.