Rick’s studio occupied a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls, the kind of space that screamed expensive and artistic. When I arrived, the parking lot was nearly empty, and through the windows I could see Rick pacing behind his desk, running his hands through his hair in a gesture that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy decisions.

He looked up when I pushed through the door, and even from across the room I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the unkempt beard, the rumpled shirt that suggested he’d been wearing it for more than one day.

“Mrs. Thompson.” He stood quickly, almost knocking over his chair. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been agonizing over whether to call you for weeks.”

“What did you find, Rick?” I asked, cutting through the pleasantries. After twenty-five years of dealing with teenagers trying to confess to cheating or bullying or worse, I’d learned to spot someone carrying guilt from a mile away.

He pulled out a thick folder and set it on the desk between us with the careful reverence of someone handling evidence. “I was organizing the wedding photos for my portfolio when I noticed something odd. So I started looking more carefully.” He paused, his hand resting on the folder like it might try to escape. “Mrs. Thompson, I think your daughter-in-law was having an affair during the wedding reception.”