Tony’s anger at the initial source of funds was minimal compared to his rage when he learned that Claire had sold her jewelry—more specifically, her wedding rings. The sentence in Roach’s email seemed so benign, yet the moment the words registered, Tony was filled with unprecedented fury. Thankfully, the email came while he was in the privacy of his home:

I have traced the source of Ms. Nichols’ newfound wealth to a reputable jewelry broker in San Francisco. He has kept her sale confidential, out of the media, and well hidden. He utilizes offshore accounts to pay his customers, but after a few dead ends, I was confident that Mr. Pulvara was the source of Ms. Nichols’ nearly $800,000 windfall. To that end, I paid Mr. Pulvara a visit. After some persuasion, he admitted that he purchased a necklace, earrings, and wedding rings from Ms. Nichols.

The room exploded in red. In the love-hate battle, Tony’s barometer shot toward hate. How could she so casually sell the representation of their union, their visible contract? After the mental chaos faded and Tony’s mind cleared, he thought about her rings. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow another woman to wear those rings. They’d been designed and purchased for Claire. The thought of anyone else wearing them infuriated him more than the idea of her selling them. Tony didn’t respond to the email in kind; instead, he picked up his phone and barked orders. Saying them aloud helped to dull his overwhelming sense of impotency. “I want the damn rings, and I don’t care how much you have to pay to get them. If this Pulvara man sold them, find the buyer and get them. Don’t disappoint me. I want them in Iowa tomorrow!”

Roach didn’t disappoint; he even delivered the rings in person to Tony’s office. Now, within the confines of his suite, Tony possessed her rings and her grandmother’s necklace. During less lucid moments, he’d imagine returning the rings to their rightful owner. He’d envision her smiling, emerald gaze as she’d extend her petite hand. The eyes in his imagination swirled with a combination of desire and happiness, as he’d slip the platinum band and sparkling diamond back onto her finger. Those were the moments when love overpowered hate.

Tony looked through his inbox and found Cameron Andrew’s emails. He clicked and reread the last few weeks of reports. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his ex-wife’s release and new life, he’d have known about Sophia’s move. Would it have mattered? Maybe this move would streamline his life. Tony chuckled as he pulled up a map of Silicon Valley. Perhaps he should fire one of his private investigators. The red arrows said it all: Sophia and Claire were living mere miles apart.

Exhaling, Tony minimized his screen. He was going to California. After over eight years of—on again and off again—watching Claire from afar, he wasn’t going to do it any longer. He clicked on Roach’s most recent email and exhaled at the displeasure of seeing Claire’s life unfold in pictures. With a fresh tumbler of bourbon, he stared at the screen. Before him he saw Claire and Harrison Baldwin dining at some restaurant. The hair on the back of Tony’s neck bristled as he observed their level of comfort. Roach had many attributes: one was the ability to take pictures in rapid succession. By activating the slideshow program, Tony could watch as if it were a movie, and like a real video from his surveillance, he could also pause and stare at each frame.

Weeks ago, Roach had sent background information on Amber McCoy and Harrison Baldwin. It was pretty straightforward: they were siblings—same mother with different fathers—who were both were on the payroll of SiJo, and both lived in the same condominium complex in Palo Alto. What his research didn’t answer was… why? Why would Claire turn to Amber McCoy, Simon Johnson’s fiancée, for help? How did they become friends? Tony met Amber at Simon Johnson’s funeral, the same time Claire met her. It didn’t make sense.

He paused the slide show at the sound of Catherine’s knock. As he looked up, she entered. “Have you learned anything new?”

Tony didn’t want to discuss Claire with Catherine. Claire was his, and he didn’t want to share; however, he acquiesced, knowing it was he who had brought Claire into Catherine’s life. “I just opened an email.”

Catherine walked around the desk and peered over Tony’s shoulder. “Hmm, I don’t think you need to worry.” She smirked. “She seems to be rebuilding her life quite well.”

Tony minimized the screen and turned to glare. “I could use less innuendo.”

Sitting down, Catherine shrugged. “I didn’t realize I was insinuating. I’m being honest. She looks happy.”

He hated to admit that Catherine was right. “Roach said they’re friends. He hasn’t seen anything to indicate—”

“That’s not what the articles are saying. I saw one that said she was living with—”

The muscles in Tony’s neck flinched. “Catherine, I think we both know that reporters like to sensationalize things.”

“So you believe that she’s living with Simon Johnson’s fiancée?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Maybe they’re all one big, happy family living under one roof.”

“No,” he responded adamantly. “Roach said that Baldwin’s apartment is on the same floor as his sister’s. Claire is living with the sister.”

After a prolonged silence, Catherine asked, “Why?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Tony admitted he didn’t know. He couldn’t figure it out. “But,” he added, “I guess that we should be happy she has a place to live.”