“First thing,” she promised. “I’ll have a process server meet you at the house at eight.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Be careful, Calla,” she said. “When men like Rylan lose control of the narrative, they get desperate.”

I hung up and stared at the steering wheel.

I knew Rylan better than anyone.

He wouldn’t get desperate immediately; he would get smug.

He still believed the house was as much his as it was mine because we were married.

He believed the law would protect his right to stay in his marital home, no matter what he had done.

He would laugh in my face when he saw the papers.

But I had to try.

I drove to a small motel on the edge of town.

The room was clean but smelled of old smoke and cheap disinfectant.

I locked the deadbolt and pushed a heavy vinyl chair under the doorknob.

I lay on the bed with my clothes on, staring at the ceiling.

Every creak of the motel hallway made my breath hitch.

Around four in the morning, my eyes finally drifted shut.