Page 210 of Even Exchange

Where else could I look?

My hand grips the handle of the bottom drawer. Thelastone. I yank on it, and it rattles but doesn’t budge.Locked tight.

“Bingo,” I mutter to myself, scouring the desk for something to jimmy it. A letter opener is in a cup holder, and I pluck it, shove it in the lock, and decide I don’t really care if I break the damn thing. I grab a book and bang the end of the letter opener, and it pops the lock.

“Yes!” I shout, then suck in a breath.Shit. At least try to be stealthy, Mrs. Caruso.

Sliding the drawer open, I buzz with relief and anticipation, finding a row of files. It appears to be organized by first name, and I flip through the tabs urgently.

There’s one on pretty much every member of our family, and especially our friends.

Jesus, Mom.

My fingertips pause on a folder with Jonathan’s name. I snatch it out and quickly flip through it.

Son of a bitch.She was having him—us—followed foryears.

What kind of complete paranoia would someone possess to carry out this level of blackmail?

I find the picture of Jonathan snorting coke and notice Kendra behind him, a wicked grin on her face. My nose wrinkles in disgust. I’m sure his cheating tendencies far outlived the ultimatum from my mother. I slap the folder shut, set it to the side, and rifle through till my finger freezes onhisname. Myhusband’sname: Noah Caruso/Lewis.

My stomach sinks.

She knows about his father.

Does she know about the shooting?

Will she leak it to the press?

Did she already?

Sure, it was self-defense. But the tabloids can spin a story any way they want.

My hands shake, and a glance at the clock reminds me how long I’ve been here already.

I opt to take the folder with me and examine it at home.

Continuing my search, my finger pauses on another labeled Benson Autopsy.

My heart stops.Why would this be in her archive of extortion?

A car door slams, and I spring into action. Adding the folder to the other two, I slide the drawer with the rest of the files shut, although I probably should burn them all. As I stand, something falls onto the floor.

I glance down, finding a flash drive, and before I can think, I’ve swiped it up and shoved it in my pocket. Looking around, I ensure the room appears untouched and sprint out of the office, slip out the back door, and don’t stop till I’m in my Bronco.

When I make it home, which took longer than expected thanks to an unwelcome panic attack, I’m still a fucking mess.

Rushing through the front door, I blow out a breath of relief when I lock it behind me. Noah’s right. I do feel safe here. I check my watch, thankful I told Noah I’d be a while. There are two hours till the game starts, so even with a little research beforehand, I should make it.

I head to the couch, files in hand, and sink down, flipping them open.

My jaw drops.

Photos of Noah, me, and the twins from the camping trip are inside. But not the cute ones I took of us around the campfire. They look more… aerial. Like someone shot them from far away.

Anger courses through my veins.

Flipping through the photos, I discover one of me with my head popped out of Noah’s tent, him clad in shorts, no shirt, and a flashlight in hand.

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