“You can’t just hand me a piece of paper and expect me to pack my bags.”

“I live here.”

“My mother lives here.”

“We are not going anywhere, and no judge is going to force me out of my own residence.”

He tapped his finger on the wooden table for emphasis.

“You want a divorce?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“But we will split everything.”

“Including this house.”

“I built my life here, and I have a right to half of its value.”

I looked at him, keeping my expression flat.

I thought about the loan documents.

I thought about the detective I had spoken to on the phone from the motel parking lot at five in the morning.

I had emailed him the scans of the forged signatures and the bank routing numbers Rylan had used to move the funds into his personal account.

The detective had told me to go to the house and wait.

“The law works both ways, Rylan,” I said softly.

“You think you are safe because we are married.”

“You think you can take whatever you want from me.”