I could hear the faint sound of a television playing in the background of wherever he was hiding.

“I loved you, Claire,” he said.

The lie was so old, so worn out, that it didn’t even hurt anymore.

“Goodbye, Mark,” I said.

“Wait—”

I hung up the phone.

I went back to the front door, where the workmen were just finishing tightening the brass screws on the plaque.

The bronze caught the pale afternoon sun, the letters of my mother’s name shining brightly against the dark grey stone of the house.

“Looks good, ma’am,” the driver said, gathering his tools.

“It looks perfect,” I said.

***

By late spring, the transition was nearly complete.

The divorce had been finalized in a small, quiet courtroom with only Thomas Bell and myself present.

Mark had failed to appear, represented only by a public defender who offered no defense against the mountain of financial records Thomas presented.

The judge had signed the decree without hesitation, restoring my maiden name and stripping Mark of any claim to the Hartwell properties.

The formal indictments had followed three days later.