Grant laughed, a cold, dry sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

“This place is a shoebox,” he said, gesturing toward the brick apartment building.

“You really think a judge is going to let my son live in a dump like this?”

“It is a home,” I said. “He is happy here.”

Grant stepped closer, blocking the wind.

“You need to drop this, Claire,” he whispered.

“Drop what?” I asked.

“Your lawyer is asking for financial disclosure,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh hiss.

“You are digging into my business accounts.”

“I have a right to know your true income for child support,” I said.

“You don’t have a right to anything of mine,” he said.

He leaned in, his eyes narrowing.

“Preston Carroway will tie you up in court until you are completely broke,” Grant said.

“He will expose every minor mistake you have ever made.”

“I have nothing to hide,” I said, though my heart was pounding against my ribs.

“Everyone has something to hide,” Grant said.

“If you don’t call off the financial inquiry, I will make sure the judge sees you as unfit.”