Rafael about-faced. “There are photographs of my wife.”
The tapping stopped. “Photographs?”
“From last year,” Rafael continued, picking up a paperweight, rolling it across his palms. “During the time she was auditing you.”
A pause. Then Trenor gave a small laugh, the kind men use when they want to pretend something is beneath them. “Is this what marriage does to you, Griffin? Paranoia?”
“I want to know if you know anything about them.”
The man leaned back, his chair complaining under him. “Your wife walked into my world and blew it up because ofsixstipends. I worked my ass off to get that position.”
Clearly, he held no remorse.
“So you retaliated?”
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to come for her with my own hands now that she’s married?”
Which only meant that, if she wasn’t, he would have.
“And if I did,” Trenor added, sharp now, the veneer cracking, “why the hell would I tell you?”
Rafael’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. That seemed to drain something out of Trenor. His bravado faltered.
“I’m not saying I know anything,” he added quickly.
A framed photograph sat near the desk lamp: a golden retriever in an absurd red bandana leaning proudly against a man’s leg. Trenor shifted in his chair as Rafael held the photo. He glanced at Cain, who hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall.
Seconds passed.
“Did you send them?”
“No.” Then, quietly, and with more bitterness: “But I understand why someone would.”
Rafael’s free hand flexed at his side. A single punch and that mouth would stop moving.
“I don’t care what you did with those stipends, or what you tell yourself to live with it,” Rafael said. “This exile is administrative. If you did this…it will be personal.”
He peered down once more at the photograph of the golden retriever and regarded it for far longer than necessary. When he set it down, it rested squarely in the center of the desk, facing Trenor.
Then he turned for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rafael had disappeared early that morning like a man who had a city to steer. He’d texted through the day in clipped bursts. Malaysia was escalating, and she appreciated the effort because she knew every word cost him time.
When he came home, Bea knew at once he hadn’t eaten. He was hers to handle now. To start, she’d prepared enough pasta to clinically alarm a nutritionist.
Now he sat at the kitchen island, already on his third bowl like a man refueling between battles. She watched him from the couch and thought, not for the first time, that Georgie had waited for certainty. Hers had simply taken over.
The torn envelope and photographs still sat on the far end of the counter, pushed under a stack of mail like something neither of them wanted to relive. Rafael hadn’t looked at them again, but every time he came home, he put his hand on that spot, like a little ritual.
Bea lifted her phone, pointed it at him, and set it to video. She kept her face carefully neutral. Just a girl on her phone. Mindin’ her business. Definitely not documenting her husband’s absolute annihilation of his dinner.
He twisted his fork, muscles flexing from back to wrist as he pulled the noodles in. The sheer primal focus was absurdly hot. His phone buzzed on the counter. He ignored it.
She whispered, “Note the technique. The concentration.” She zoomed in but fumbled the angle and it made a thunk on the wood. Rafael’s eyes cut to her instantly. The reflex was pure predator, the kind that noticed disturbances before deciding whether they mattered.
“Delete it.”
