“What aren’t you telling me?”
“If I tell you—” I stop, pulse hammering. “Never mind. I can’t.”
“Alicia.” The line goes quiet—a silence weighted with suspicion. “What has the detective uncovered that you don’t want public?”
Shit. Too much.
“You and Delacroix. You had an affair.”
I close my eyes, shame and memory tangling in my chest—the scent of aftershave and hotel linen, the way guilt tastes like metal on the tongue.
“Nick was right,” Dorian murmurs.
“Nick?” The name lands like a stone dropped into still water. Nick. That weekend in the city. The accidental run-in. All these years. “What?—”
“That weekend in the city with you and Christine. Nick suspected something was going on with you two when we ran into him in the hotel lobby. I’d forgotten about that—but that’s why his name was familiar. How’d the detective find out?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But he suspects. No one knows. No one.”
“If Nick picked up on it after one weekend…” He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he’s implying.
“We were careful,” I say quietly. “Both married. It was stupid. And it ended long before his death. Even before he dropped off my board of advisors.”
“Does Richard know?”
“No.” The response is whip fast—too quick—but it’s true.
“You sure?”
A humorless smile curves my lips. “He didn’t then, but he suspects now. If he knew back then, he’d have weaponized it to void the prenup.”
“Good point. What made him suspect now after all these years?”
“He came to the station. The detective asked pointed questions—right in front of him. He confronted me. I denied it.”
“Well, having an affair doesn’t make you a murderer. But was there someone else? A recent affair? Did Delacroix’s wife know?”
“She didn’t know about me.” I pause. “But maybe someone. He stepped off the board to ‘work on his marriage,’ but who knows. That’s for the detective to solve.”
Dorian exhales, low and weighted. “So now you’re a person of interest. Do you need a lawyer?”
“No,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it. “At least not for Delacroix’s murder case. The affair happened too long ago. Now, as for Pierce. I’ve already agreed to the closed-door congressional hearing in relation to my client Senator Crawford. With Pierce’s criminal case underway…do you think I’ll be subpoenaed? What are you hearing?”
“I’d say it’s likely.”
“You know anything I have on Pierce would surface through the senator’s channels too.”
“Honestly, I don’t think it’s Pierce watching you—it’s possible, but it’s not what I’d bet on. My guess? A peripheral client. Someone with more to lose. Pierce is already exposed.”
That tracks. My job isn’t always about saving reputation. It’s about triage after detonation. I manage the aftermath when the truth’s already escaped. But sometimes, the crisis starts before exposure, when someone’s desperate enough to hide it.
“Maybe I’ll go through my files,” I murmur. “See who else worked with Vasquez. Or Magpie.”
“You think there’s overlap? Something with Pierce you haven’t considered?”
“There’s always overlap,” I say. “In politics, in secrets, in sin.”
He’s quiet.