I go downstairs.
His door opens in three seconds. Sweats. T-shirt. Mason asleep on the couch behind him.
“You knew I’d be at the gala.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. He holds the door open wider and looks at me with the steady grey eyes of a man who’s been waiting for this.
“Come in.”
“I don’t want to come in. I want an answer.”
“Then ask inside. Mason’s sleeping.”
I walk past him into the kitchen. He follows. Leans against the counter. Crosses his arms. Doesn’t offer coffee. He knows this isn’t a coffee conversation.
“Catherine Wells,” I say. “She gave you the last-minute invitation to the Kensington gala. You weren’t a donor. You had no connection to the foundation.”
“Correct.”
“She knows my father. I found a photo — fundraiser in Connecticut, four years ago. Richard Ha
