“Absolutely not. You shouldn’t even be here. I . . .” She stopped when someone picked up on the other end. “Constance, this is Anne. I know Nick’s in meetings, but . . .” Her eyes widened, she gulped hard. “He isn’t?” As she listened, her face fell and her flat expression hinted at somberness. Defiance was gone now, too, replaced by sheer panic as the reality of her situation slowly set in. She turned her back to me, to the movers, and lowered her voice to a quavering whisper. “He hasn’t been in at all? I called his cell.... He doesn’t answer. I need to speak with him right away . . . Yes, try, and call me when you’ve reached him, will you? It’s urgent.” She ended the call.

“He’s looking out for himself. He’s left you to face the shame of what he’s done.”

Without a word, undaunted, she raised the phone and dialed again. She’d call the lawyers next. It was all she likely knew to do. But they were Nick’s lawyers, not hers. I stood listening as the receptionist on the other end blocked her call and took her message. She was getting it. She knew what kind of man she’d married; deep down, she knew.

“This move. Whose idea was it?”

“None of your business. How dare you! You don’t know me. You don’t know my husband. You don’t know anything.”

The movers lifted boxes and moved them out, silently. There’d be a story to tell their wives and girlfriends when they got home at the end of the day, but for right now, there was only lurid curiosity and a tinge of pity for the left-behind rich woman in the pink top. You could see it in their eyes.

“Where’d he say you were going?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but there was still a little fire left. She pressed her lips together, holding on to Nick Spada’s last secret, as though there was a chance left for her. “Will I have to call the police for you to leave?”

I watched her, wondering what she’d do when the world found out what her husband had done, and her little bubble of wealth and privilege burst wide open and dropped her like a stone. “Would he run to the boat?”

Anne Spada brushed past me, heading toward the back of the house. I followed. We ended up in the massive kitchen. Many of the boxes were gone already, hauled out by the movers, but a few remained. She didn’t seem interested in the boxes at this point, in where she or they were supposed to be going. She turned to find me there.

“This is harassment. You have no right. Go away!”

I pulled the hit woman’s picture out of my bag and showed it to her. “Do you recognize her?”

She gasped. “Where’d you get that?”