The message blinked on my screen before sunrise: Exclusive interview chance, WestCorp recovery story. Confidential. Meet at The Ivy Lounge, noon. L.C.

My stomach tightened. Only one person signed those letters.

When Julian came out of the shower, still towel-damp, he caught the look on my face. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly, shoving the phone under a pillow.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was already hard.

“I just got an email.”

“From who?”

...