“So seventy-two hours was optimistic.”
“For closing? Possibly. For final possession? Maybe.”
“What can we do?”
“We proceed carefully.”
I looked at Evelyn.
“Do it.”
“I already am. There’s something else.”
Phoebe’s tone changed.
“What?”
“I called your property manager.”
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To establish who authorized the lock replacement.”
“And?”
“He said Luca did.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What might surprise you is that Luca told him you requested it.”
I went still.
Evelyn saw my face.
“What happened?” she whispered.
I raised one finger.
“What exactly did Luca say?”
“According to Martin, Luca claimed you wanted the security system changed before you returned from the hospital because there had been concerns about unauthorized access.”
“That conversation never happened.”
“I assumed.”
“Did Martin get anything in writing?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“He forwarded me an email.”
My stomach tightened.
“From Luca?”
“From your personal assistant’s account.”
I frowned.
“Naomi?”
“No. Your old personal account.”
I didn’t immediately understand.
Then I did.
Years ago, before my company expanded, I had used an address ending in my private domain for everything—contractors, household bills, travel arrangements, even personal correspondence.
I hadn’t actively used it in nearly two years.
“Someone emailed Martin from my old address?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“That Mr. Moretti had authority to update residential security during your hospitalization and that all access questions should be directed to him until further notice.”
I felt suddenly cold again.
“Can you tell whether it actually came from my account?”
“Not yet.”
“I haven’t logged into that email since before the wedding.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I make you answer cybersecurity questionnaires every year.”
Under different circumstances, I might have smiled.
Instead, I looked down at my hands.
“Phoebe.”
“Yes?”
“I want everything checked.”
“That’s what I was going to recommend.”
“Cards. Household accounts. Travel authorization. Vendors. Anything Luca could have accessed.”
“I’ll bring in a forensic accountant tomorrow morning.”
Evelyn crossed her arms.
“What about the baby?”
Phoebe heard her.
“Evelyn’s right. Jessi, your job tonight is not investigating your husband.”
“My husband is in Miami using my travel account.”
“And tomorrow he will still be in Miami, or he won’t. Either way, you need sleep.”
“I’m not going to sleep.”
“Then lie down while being awake.”
I almost laughed.
Phoebe continued.
“Send me every message Luca has sent you since you went into labor.”
“There aren’t many.”
Another pause.
“How few is ‘not many’?”
I opened my messages.
The answer embarrassed me.
“Five.”
“Five since you went into labor?”
“Yes.”
“And how many were asking about Lily?”
I scrolled.
One message about airport timing.
One about whether the hospital valet had his Range Rover key.
One saying his mother thought it would be better if he went home to prepare the house.
One asking whether I knew where his passport was.
The final one, sent six hours earlier, read:
Hope you and baby are settling in. Mom really needs this trip after everything. Back Friday.
I swallowed.
“One.”
Phoebe became quiet.
Then, more softly, she said, “Forward everything.”
I did.
