She did not know the Ralston estate had been bankrupt for three years.

She did not know I had been paying her mortgage and her country club dues.

I looked at her, then at Graham, who refused to meet my eyes.

“Keep the chicken,” I said.

I walked out of the dining room, my daughters’ small hands tight in mine.

We walked down the long, marble hallway toward the foyer.

My heels clicked against the stone.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

My thumb hovered over the contact labeled *Harrison – Legal*.

I tapped the screen as we reached the front door, and the line began to ring.

Harrison answered on the third ring.

“Jocelyn,” he said, his voice quiet and professional. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s time, Harrison,” I said.

We walked out the heavy oak front doors of the Ralston estate and into the humid Texas evening.

The air smelled of cut grass and incoming rain.

“Are you sure?” Harrison asked.

“I am sure,” I said. “Draft the divorce petition tonight.”

“And the assets?”