“He’s in corporate PR,” she says. “His biggest clients are food manufacturers. He moved away from scandals years ago. Even when he and Alicia worked together, she took the crisis cases. He preferred long-term retainers and predictable contracts.” Her gaze meets mine. “He was boring, Mr. Bennett. That’s what we wanted. Boring and safe.”
“Your group therapy sessions,” I say gently. “How many people were in those?”
Suspicion flickers, but she doesn’t shut down. “Why?”
“I’m trying to trace the leak,” I say. “Someone told that detective about the affair. Alicia believed no one knew. I’m trying to figure out who did.”
“‘No one knew,’” Elizabeth scoffs softly. “That sounds like her.” She exhales. “Ms. Perfect would believe that. For the record, I didn’t owe Matt silence. I told a couple of close friends. And the group therapist ran a program with women in difficult relationships. We used first names only, but when you sit in a circle every week, you recognize faces. People came and went. So did I. Three kids, school schedules, carpools.” She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t have a list. I’m not even sure I’d recognize most of them now.”
So much for shrinking the suspect pool.
“I understand,” I say. “I just needed to know if we were dealing with one confidante or a wider circle. Sounds like the latter.”
She checks her watch and rises. “I really have to go.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Delacroix,” I say, standing. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you missed anything this time. And I don’t think your husband’s death has anything to do with Alicia reliving old sins.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says quietly. “The police said they have conclusive evidence. I hope they’re wrong. I don’t want to have to explain Matt’s affair to our children. Right now, he’s their hero.”
She walks toward the lot with a measured stride. A black Mercedes SUV flashes its tail lights as it unlocks. She loads her tennis bag into the backseat, and I take a discreet shot of the license plate as she pulls away—not because she feels like a suspect, but because it never hurts to have data.
On my phone, I tap out a quick update to the team:
Met with ex-wife. Alibi: tennis match. Doesn’t feel suspicious. Shared that she told close friends and group therapy about affair.
The last line tastes like ash. If there was any hope of narrowing our focus by limiting who knew about the affair, it’s gone.
I shift my weight, and my boot nudges something on the ground. A cluster of plastic disks lies half-hidden in the gravel. I bend and pick them up.
Tournament tags—club name, dates, winners. They’re clipped together, and the back piece is engraved Elizabeth Delacroix.
Must’ve fallen out of her bag.
I glance back at the club. I could drop them at the front desk, but this is better—a neutral excuse to cross her threshold if I ever need context again. If she’s not home, I’ll leave them in her mailbox. No pressure, just consideration. Favor banked.
Thanks to Quinn’s dossier, I have her address.
She asked me to stay away, but this is a favor.
The Delacroix house sits in a well-heeled neighborhood—nothing like the distinguished wealth on Richard Whitmore’s street, but close enough that the same landscapers probably do both. Two-story colonials line the road, smaller lots, smaller houses, still plenty of money.
I pull into her drive and knock. A dog barks, big and deep, from somewhere inside. No footsteps follow.
Her car’s not in the drive, so I head back down to the curbside mailbox. The habit is ingrained: eyes up, scan the street, check for watchers.
That’s when I see him.
Four houses down, in a sedan that absolutely does not belong to this ZIP Code, a man sits behind the wheel. He’s the same guy I saw arguing with Jessica outside a café near Alicia’s office. He’s parked in a way that gives him a view of both the Delacroix place and anyone circling the block. It’s not the worst surveillance spot, but it’s not the best either. Feels like someone who knows just enough to be dangerous.
I open the mailbox, slide the tournament disks on top of the waiting mail, and close it again.
With one eye on the sedan, I type out a quick text to Elizabeth:
Found your tournament tags near the court. Dropped them in your mailbox. Thought you might want them back.
She lives close to the club. With any luck, she’ll chalk it up to thoroughness, not intrusion.
I get back into the Rivian, idle forward, and as I pass the sedan, snap a photo of the driver. I don’t bother being subtle. He makes a show of looking down at something in his lap. Could be his phone. Could be an act.