“It’s all right, Jessica.” I turned my gaze back to Richard. “You’re right to be concerned about standing. About resources. About whether Michael can provide the life your daughter deserves.”
Michael looked like he wanted the floor of that elegant dining room to open up and swallow him whole.
But I kept going.
“Tell me, Richard. How’s the Riverside Development project coming along?”
Richard blinked, caught entirely off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“Riverside Development. Your firm’s flagship project. Twenty million in renovation costs for that property portfolio out in Cambridge.”
His face went noticeably pale. “How do you know about that?”
“And the Hartford acquisition fell through last year, didn’t it, because you couldn’t secure the bridge financing in time. Put your firm in a fairly tight spot.”
Richard’s hand tightened visibly around his butter knife. “Who are you?”
I reached into the pocket of my worn leather jacket — the same jacket they’d all been quietly sneering at for the better part of an hour — and pulled out my wallet. From inside it I withdrew a slightly worn business card and slid it face-up across the white tablecloth toward him.
