The screen lit up, casting a blue square on the ceiling.

No one picked it up.

We all watched the little rectangle of light buzz against the polished wood until it went silent.

“This is a mistake,” Mark said.

He walked toward the window, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“I ran this place,” Mark said.

He turned around, his shoulders tense.

“For five years, I managed the maintenance,” he said.

“You hired contractors and paid them with foundation money,” Thomas said.

“I did the physical work!” Mark yelled. “I spent my weekends here.”

He pointed a finger at the ceiling.

“I oversaw the roof repair,” he said. “I dealt with the historic preservation board.”

“You did that because you lived here,” I said.

“I did it because I was your husband,” Mark said.

He took a step toward me.

Thomas stepped between us, his tall frame blocking Mark’s path.

“Do not approach her,” Thomas said.

Mark laughed, but the sound was hollow.

“You think you can just throw me out?” Mark asked.

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing.

“We are married, Claire,” he said.