The package arrives at midnight.
I'm alone in my study, nursing my third whiskey of the evening and pretending I'm not thinking about tomorrow. About her. About the fact that in less than twelve hours, I'll stand at an altar and bind myself to a woman who has every reason to want me dead.
Marco dropped the package off an hour ago with that look he gets—the one that says he knows something I don't and isn't sure whether to warn me or let me walk into whatever's coming. I told him to leave it and get out. Now I'm staring at the plain brown box on my desk like it might explode if I touch it.
Maybe it will. Maybe that would be easier.
I pour another drink and tear open the package.
The photos spill across my desk like accusations. Black and white surveillance shots, slightly grainy, clear
