Damp strands stuck to her tear-streaked face.

The agents hoisted her back up by her armpits.

Her feet dragged in the gravel, leaving two parallel tracks in the gray stones.

Her slippers slipped off, left behind in the mud.

They pushed her into the back seat of the lead Suburban.

She slammed her palms against the tinted glass, her mouth open in a silent howl.

The agent shut the door, cutting off the sound.

Grant stood a few feet away, watched by another agent.

He looked at his mother’s discarded slipper in the dirt.

He looked at the Range Rover as it drove away.

His face was pale, his eyes wide with a sudden, desperate realization.

The Monroe name was ruined in Buckhead.

He turned his head toward me.

“Allison,” he said, his voice trembling.

The agent grabbed his arm. “Get in the vehicle, sir.”

“Wait,” Grant pleaded, looking back at me. “Just one minute.”

I walked slowly down the steps toward him.

The smell of his expensive cologne mixed with the scent of wet gravel and exhaust.

“We were married for eight years,” he whispered.