Rick Brennan’s studio was located in the arts district, a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls. When I arrived at 7:00 p.m. sharp, the parking lot was nearly empty.

Inside, Rick was waiting behind his desk, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually perfect beard was unkempt.

“Mrs. Thompson, thank you for coming,” he said, standing quickly. “I’ve been agonizing over whether to call you for weeks.”

“What did you find?” I asked, cutting straight to the point.

After twenty-five years teaching high school, I’d learned to spot trouble brewing from miles away.

Rick pulled out a thick folder and set it on the desk between us.

“I was organizing the wedding photos for my portfolio when I noticed something odd. I started looking more carefully,” he said, then paused, running his hand through his hair. “Mrs. Thompson, I think your daughter-in-law was having an affair during the wedding reception.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways.