A man stood on the doorstep. He was tall and dark, about my age. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and soft denim jeans. Nice-looking, really. Put it this way: he didn’t look like a good-enough reason for Ruby to be sleeping with my husband. Not that you can always tell, but still.

He stared at me. “Yes?”

“Hi.” I started to speak but my throat felt raw. I know I’m all for bravado, but this was taking its toll on me. “Are you Tom? Tom Dean?”

He nodded and made to shut the door. “I don’t want to buy anything, thanks.”

I bristled. “I’m not selling you anything!” I took a deep breath. “Is Ruby here?” I knew she wouldn’t be, but I had to double-check.

He shook his head. I could see he wasn’t going to give away a damn thing.

“I’m Emma Sheridan,” I said. “Ruby works for my husband.”

“You’re Harry’s wife? Is everything okay? Nothing went wrong with their flight, did it?”

“I doubt it,” I said with confidence, because I always think that bastards get away with everything. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

He looked behind me, as though I might have a posse with me, and automatically I looked, too. His house is on a corner and he has only one neighbor; that house was in darkness and its driveway was empty. Then he remembered his manners. “Yes, of course. Come on in.”

He ushered me through the hall and into the living room, then switched off the television.

“Would you like a drink?” he offered. There was a bottle of red wine open on the coffee table and a glass stood beside it, half-full.

Right then I would’ve done anything for a glass of something even stronger, but I answered, “I’d better not. I’m driving.”

“Sparkling water? Orange juice?”

“Water would be great, thanks.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tall glass of icy sparkling water. He set it down on the table beside me. “Let me take your jacket,” he said. “Have a seat.”