Then the line disconnected.
David stared at the phone.
“Austin?”
I closed my eyes.
Too late.
He looked at me.
“Your father lives in Austin?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
I said nothing.
Michael Grant did.
He had been staring at the phone number displayed on David’s screen.
Then he looked at me.
Not David.
Me.
“Anna.”
His voice was strange.
“What is your maiden name?”
I met his eyes.
“Whitmore.”
Michael’s face went blank.
David frowned.
“What?”
Michael continued staring at me.
“Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Your father is Jonathan Whitmore?”
Sylvia looked confused.
“Who?”
Michael did not answer her.
He looked at David.
And I watched a sixty-two-year-old senior partner realize before my husband did exactly how much trouble was standing in that kitchen.
David laughed.
“Who the hell is Jonathan Whitmore?”
Michael whispered:
“The Chief Justice.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Even the voices from the dining room seemed to disappear.
