At my son's engagement party, his fiancée drenched me with a hose in front of 30 guests and mocked me: "B.e.g.g.a.r.s don't get married here." I simply held my shopping bag against my chest and let my phone keep recording, waiting for her to learn who I really was.

I called Carol Shin from the car.

Ethan drove.

He kept both hands on the wheel and said nothing while I spoke, which was how I knew he was listening to every word.

"I need everything Thomas Reeves has touched in the last eighteen months," I told Carol.

"Every document, every external communication, every meeting that wasn't logged through the main calendar system.

I want it on my desk by tomorrow morning."

"Is this a termination review?" Carol asked.

"It's a preliminary audit.

Don't tell him.

Don't tell anyone on his team."

A pause.

"Understood.

Dorothy — are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"I heard there was an incident at the party—"

"I'm fine, Carol.

Tomorrow morning."

I ended the call.

Ethan glanced at me once, then back at the road.

"Thomas has been with us for nine years," he said.

"I know."

"He was at your birthday dinner last year.

He gave a toast."

"I know, Ethan."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Do you think George was telling the truth?"

"George told me exactly as much of the truth as served his purpose," I said.

"Which means it's probably accurate and probably incomplete." I looked out the window at the Nashville skyline, the lights beginning to show against the early evening sky.

"Thomas may have approached him.

That part I believe.

What I don't know yet is whether George went looking for him first."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters for what comes next."

Ethan pulled onto the highway.

"What does come next?"

"Tomorrow I meet with Thomas.

Tonight I listen to the full recording." I turned to look at my son.

"And at some point, you and I need to have a conversation about Vanessa."

His hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

"I know."

"Not tonight."

"No," he agreed.

"Not tonight."

We drove in silence for a while.

The city fell away behind us and the road opened up, dark and straight.

"Mom," Ethan said finally.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I didn't see it."

I looked at him — his profile in the dark, the set of his jaw, the same expression his father had worn when he was ashamed of something and couldn't find the right words for it.

My son was thirty-four years old and had built something real and good, and he had nearly handed it to people who saw it only as a number on a balance sheet.

"You weren't supposed to see it," I said.

"That's why they needed you not to."

He nodded once.

His shoulders dropped slightly — not defeat.

Relief.

"I dressed like that on purpose," I said.

"The thrift store clothes.

The grocery bag.

I wanted to walk in as nobody and see what they did."

"And?"

"I got more than I came for."

He almost smiled.

It didn't quite make it, but it was close.

We reached the house just after nine.

My housekeeper, Mae, met us at the door with a look on her face that told me she had already heard something — Mae always heard something — but she said nothing except that there was soup on the stove and dry clothes laid out upstairs.

I was halfway up the stairs when my phone rang.

The name on the screen was Thomas Reeves.

I looked at it for two full rings.

Then I answered.

"Thomas."

"Dorothy." His voice was careful.

Measured.

The voice of a man who had spent the afternoon deciding what to say.

"I heard there was some trouble at Ethan's party today.

I wanted to check in."

"That's kind of you."

"Are you all right?"