Even from where I stood, I could hear the faint, sharp tone of Gloria’s voice through the speaker.

She was not offering comfort.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out and looked at the screen.

It was an email notification from my commercial property manager.

The lockout notice for Graham’s office had just been officially served.

I slipped back down the hallway, my soft-soled shoes making no sound on the reclaimed oak floors.

Upstairs, Hazel and Ruby were in their playroom, building a castle out of colored wooden blocks.

I sat on the floor with them for an hour, breathing in the scent of their baby shampoo and trying to keep my hands from shaking.

The next afternoon, the storm finally broke.

Gloria’s silver Mercedes SUV screeched to a halt in our circular driveway at three o’clock.

She did not knock; she used her spare key and let herself in, her heavy diamond rings clinking against the brass deadbolt.

“Graham!” she called out, her voice echoing through the double-height foyer.