The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller Read Online Free PDF

determine her husband's move up the food chain. She caught herself relishing the few hours Wynton spent playing with his son on Sundays when no big trial loomed on that Monday's court calendar, even if his time never seemed to include diaper changing, feeding, or bathing Wynn-Three.
         That had been her job: baby poop, trying to stop Wynn-Three from

throwing his food and projectile vomiting. Now at least the kid was toilet-trained and would rather eat his food than use it as a weapon. He managed to wear as much of it as he ate.
         Hardly the intellectual stimulation of the law practice.
         A tug at her hand brought her back to Lenox Square. "Potty, Mommy!"
         Her nose told her the plea came too late. Wynn-Three had been toilet-trained for almost a year. It had been months since he had had an accident. Ever the pragmatist, though, she still carried a spare pair of his underwear in her purse. She looked around for the ladies' room, one hopefully with a changing station.
         Odd the Pink Pig really had frightened the child. Few things did. Sudden noises only caught his attention. He knew no strangers. He took being left with a sitter for a few hours while she went to the gym with equanimity. The kid was unshakable. But scared shitless of a kiddie train with a pig's face on it?
         Well, not exactly shitless . . .
         She spotted the restroom sign and headed in that direction, Wynn-Three's hand gripped in hers.
         From law review to changing diapers. It had been her choice, one she sometimes regretted. The neighborhood women, those who stayed at home to tend to their families, were friendly enough but hardly stimulating. Debates as to the best canned baby foods left her unfulfilled. Hints as to how to remove stains held no interest for her. Listening to lengthy accounts of this child's first day in pre-K or that kid's cute comment bored her. Worse, it hardly made for interesting dinner table conversation when Wynton did come home.
         The thought of growing dull terrified her. A woman might get fat and lose her looks. That was why the gym was there and plastic surgeons drove Rolls-Royces. A wife could go from zero to bitch in three-point-six seconds no time. Local shrinks pay for their children's college by treating such problems. But getting dull? That was terminal as cancer and treated much the same way: by separating it from the host body by surgery on one hand, by divorce on the other.
         Dull terrified her.
         Three miles away, Wynton Rather Charles Jr. was staring at his computer screen, reviewing the transcript of a deposition he had taken nearly

a year ago. He was smiling, appreciating how apparent his careful preparation had showed in every question.
         The phone buzzed.
         Without taking his eyes from his masterful cross-examination, he pushed the speaker button. "Charles."
         "It's me. Can you talk?"
         The corners of his mouth twitched down. From the background noise, he knew she was on her cell phone. Paige called him two or three times a day, almost always with something that could have waited until he got home. She had worked here. She knew how busy he was.
         "It's Wynn-Three," she began without waiting for an answer to her question.
         Wynton frowned as he punched the button again, muting the phone. It would not do for someone, perhaps a senior partner, to walk into his office and find him chatting with his wife as if one of the largest class actions the firm had ever defended wasn't going to trial next month.
         He wished he could personally witness all the achievements and adventures of his son, he really did. But there was little point in dwelling on the subject. He had heard the child's first words over the telephone in a Chicago hotel room, spent two of the first three birthdays away from his family.
         The price of a high-pressure law practice at a big firm.
         "So, what now?" Wynton made