Nathaniel was standing at the kitchen island when Claire got back, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, three open laptops in front of him and a look on his face that she had come to recognize as his most dangerous mode: absolute stillness before absolute action.
James was there too, on the phone, speaking in clipped sentences. Marcus Cole sat at the kitchen table, older looking than the last time Claire had seen him, but present, which felt like its own kind of apology.
Claire set her bag down. Nathaniel looked up.
“Gerald is meeting with Vanessa tonight,” he said. “James intercepted a calendar invite sent through a personal email account Gerald forgot we have monitoring rights on per his board agreement. They are meeting at a private club in Midtown at nine.”
“What are we going to do,” Cla
