I don't hear a word they say.
My world is focused entirely on the phone lying face up on the mahogany table.
The screen displays a pulsing green line.
SUBJECT: WIFE.STATUS: ACTIVE.HEART RATE: 122 BPM.
She is supposed to be at the gallery. She told me this morning, while I was fastening the diamond necklace around her throat, that she needed solitude. She said she was going to sketch in the private studio I built for her.
Sketching does not elevate a heart rate to one hundred and twenty-two beats per minute.
Running does. Fear does. Sex does.
I tap the screen to expand the GPS data.
LOCATION: MADISON SQUARE PARK.
She is not at the gallery. She is sitting on a park bench twenty blocks away.
I stare at the dot. It’s stationary.
Why is her heart racing while she sits still?
"Mr. Vane?" The CFO clears his throat, looking at me nervously. "Regarding the acquisition of the Brooklyn terminal..."
I stand up. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
"Buy it," I say, buttoning my jacket. "Fire the management. Burn the books."
"Sir, we haven't even discussed the price."
"I don't care about the price," I snarl, grabbing my phone. "I care about the time."
I walk out of the room, leaving a silence thick with confusion in my wake.
I get into the private elevator. My thumb hovers over the screen.
125 BPM.
Rage, cold and black, begins to coil in my gut. It mixes with the bile of suspicion.
Is she running? No. If she were running, she’d be at the airport. She’s sitting in a park in the middle of the day.
Is she meeting someone?
The image of the man from the gallery flashes in my mind. The cheap suit. The tired eyes. The way he leaned into her space, his hand brushing the silk of her dress.
Just a fan,she had said.
I didn't believe her then. I don't believe her now.
I exit the building. Luca brings the car around—a black armored sedan this time.
"Madison Square Park," I order, getting in the back. "Don't stop for lights."
"Trouble, Boss?" Luca asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Treason," I whisper.
