“He really did it,” I said, getting into the passenger seat.

“He’s trying to provoke you,” Diane said, shifting the car into reverse.

“He wants you to make a scene so he can get a restraining order.”

“I have eighty dollars in my purse, Diane,” I said.

“And I have a couch in my office,” she replied.

She drove down the hill, away from the coast.

Diane’s office was located in a modest brick building near the Santa Ana courthouse.

It smelled of old paper, coffee, and lemon floor cleaner.

She turned on the overhead fluorescent lights, making me blink.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to a leather sofa in the corner.

She went to a small kitchenette and brought back two mugs of black tea.

“We are going to file an emergency injunction at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Diane said.

She sat behind her desk and began typing rapidly on her laptop.

“He cannot freeze marital funds without a court order, even with his corporate loopholes.”

“But the judge might take days to rule,” I said, holding the warm mug.