“Come to my office,” he said.
“No.”
A beat passed.
“No?”
“If we’re going to discuss my husband secretly writing letters about me to my employer, I don’t want to do it in your office while twelve people watch me walk in.”
“You’re right.”
I looked through the glass wall of my office.
Priya was pretending not to look at me.
“Where?”
“Foundation archives. Forty-Seventh Street. Noon.”
—
The Kane Foundation occupied three floors of an old limestone building that felt almost intentionally unlike Kane Global.
There was no polished black marble.
No dramatic reception desk.
The walls held photographs from literacy programs, neighborhood gardens, youth art projects, and small-business workshops.
Adrian was waiting in a quiet conference room overlooking a courtyard.
He had removed his jacket.
A cardboard archive box sat on the table.
I stopped in the doorway.
“What is that?”
“The rest of it.”
I closed the door.
