Childish, really. The kind of thing a twelve-year-old does at a sleepover.
But that silly little idea ended up protecting my home, my inheritance, and probably the next ten years of my life.
My name is Claire Whitaker.
I was thirty-one years old, and only a few hours earlier, I had married Brandon Hale after two years together.
The reception had ended a little after midnight at an elegant old hotel on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. The ballroom had smelled like peonies and candle wax. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My feet hurt from dancing in shoes I’d bought for how they looked, not how they felt.
Brandon stayed downstairs to say goodbye to a few business associates who had lingered at the bar.
“Go on up, babe,” he said, kissing my temple. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be right behind you.”
So I went up to the bridal suite alone, still in my wedding dress, holding the long train bunched in one hand so it wouldn’t drag in the elevator.
