She didn’t fight them this time; her shoulders slumped, and her expensive wool coat looked suddenly too large for her.

She looked at me then, her eyes dark with a cold, venomous hatred that had spanned five years of my life.

“You think you’ve won something, Claire,” she hissed as they pulled her arms behind her back.

“You’re nothing without our family name.”

“You’re a schoolteacher from eastern Colorado with no money and no standing.”

I stood up from my chair, my hands steady against the back of the seat.

“The Lawson name won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on by tomorrow morning, Margaret,” I said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the bailiff gave her arm a firm, upward nudge.

“Step forward, ma’am,” the officer said, his voice devoid of any sympathy.

They led her through the side door, her heels clicking a slow, irregular rhythm on the linoleum until the door clicked shut.

Samuel put his hand on my shoulder, his grip warm and solid.

“We need to wait in the conference room,” he said.