Bradlee, who has a degree from UW in accounting but hates his job, said he didn’t care about money. He was more into experiences.

“No need, Adam,” he answered. “I’ll do it tonight. On the house. My folks are gone to Spokane for a few days, and I got the place to myself.”

In my day that meant hosting a party that you could count on getting out of hand.

For Bradlee, it’s a chance to sit around and play video games without worrying that his mom is going to yell at him.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

“Basic stuff,” I told him. “It’s for my brother. He wants to know if you can track the IP. Figure out the sender’s name if you can.”

“Gotcha,” he said.

I had scrubbed out Sophie’s name and her replies to lover boy. Bradlee could probably find that info if he tried. I guessed I didn’t care if he did. I just wanted to know. Who was my wife seeing?

“Want me to text you the info?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Just bring it in. I’ll want the drive back too.”

The next day Bradlee showed up with the thumb drive, a smile on his face. He looked excited. Excited for Bradlee, that is. His expression was decidedly less sleepy than normal.

“Dude,” he said. “Your brother’s wife is a total bitch.”

I nodded. “Yeah, she is.”

“Anyway, it was easy peasy to figure this out. The emails were sent from the Blue Door’s IP. The guy logged on to his Gmail there using the restaurant’s computer.”

“Can you tell exactly who sent it?”

The kid shook his head. “But I bet if you go down there, you can scope it out. Been there once. Food’s good. Small place. Can’t be that many guys there shagging your brother’s wife.”

He returned the drive to my open hand. I squeezed it like a stress ball, and it dug into my palm.

I knew where I was going for lunch.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

KRISTEN

Randall Howser is our law firm’s senior partner. He’s in his seventies and sports a shock of black hair that we assume to be a toupee. It seriously has to be. But of course, no one would mention it. He writes the checks, after all. And if he thinks he looks good, that’s fine with me. In fact, make that fabulous.

It’s my anniversary at the firm, and while I’m up to my neck in the quicksand of a case and the worry over what’s happening with Connor, I have zero choice but to go to the obligatory lunch.

“Just you and me,” Randall says.

I don’t feel uncomfortable about this. He’s harmless.

What isn’t harmless is his insistence that we dine at the Blue Door.

“I love that place,” he says.