Chapter 8: The Ticks

"No," I said.

Tristram's smile came back, but it had less behind it.

"Three hundred thousand."

"No."

"Joanna, a woman who walks out on a prenup like yours has nothing.

I'm offering you three hundred thousand dollars for a notebook."

"If it's only a notebook full of my lies," I said, "why would you pay three hundred thousand for it?"

His jaw moved once.

Then he turned and walked out of the ballroom, and nobody stopped him.

That night I sat cross-legged on Bridget's couch with the Ledger open on a pillow.

It was after ten.

Bridget had gone to bed with her door open and her phone on the nightstand.

Ethan sat at the other end of the couch with his boots off.

He had brought takeout and a pad of paper, and he had refused to leave.

"A man who'd pay that much wants it back for a reason," he said. "Let's find the reason."

I turned to the first page.

The paper was heavy and cream colored, and the handwriting was Tristram's, small and square.

Each entry had a date, a line of what I had said, and a small pencil tick in the margin.

I read the first one aloud.

"Joanna says her mother-in-law reads her letters before she does."

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