Emily’s eyes flicked around the table, searching for help. No one moved.
“You told me you were stressed,” I continued. “Too tired. Overwhelmed with work. You told everyone we were trying to reconnect.” I paused. “So I’ll ask again. Who’s the father?”
“That’s enough,” Emily snapped, but panic had already cracked through her voice.
Mark swore quietly. Chloe covered her mouth.
I reached into my jacket and placed a printed photo beside her plate. Not tossed. Not slammed. Set down. A timestamped image from two Fridays ago: Emily outside the Fairfield Inn near Baltimore, kissing Daniel Mercer, her regional manager.
Emily stared at it as if it might vanish.
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