Daniel dismissed the comment with a slight wave of his hand.

“A formality,” he said. “One my lawyers are already handling.”

He walked over to a pedestal in the center of the room.

On it sat a heavy, abstract sculpture made of welded iron and charred oak.

I called it *The Ledger*.

Inside the hollow core of the oak, wrapped in black velvet, was a small, high-sensitivity digital recorder.

The red indicator light was blocked by a knot in the wood.

“You’ve lost weight,” Daniel said, looking me up and down.

“I’ve been working,” I said.

“You’ve been hiding,” he corrected.

He reached out and ran a finger over the rusted metal of the sculpture.

“People are talking, Emily,” he said softly.

“They always do,” I said.

“They are wondering why the wife of Daniel Hayes is living in a drafty loft on Wabash,” he said.

“They’ll know why when they see the work,” I said.

Daniel laughed, a short, dry sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You think this is art,” he said. “You think this is a statement.”