The apartment smelled of stale garlic pork and the cheap pine cleaner I had used on the kitchen counters.

He stood near the radiator by the window, keeping his wool coat buttoned to his chin.

He looked smaller in the dim light of the hallway, his shoulders curved inward.

“Five minutes, Mallerie,” he said.

His voice was flat, stripped of the warmth he used to have when he came home from work.

“We don’t need five minutes if you just listen to reason,” I said.

I walked over to the kitchen island and leaned against the laminate edge.

My hand was still inside my pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cold plastic of my phone.

“Reason?” Carl asked. “You brought a fake deed to my building, Mallerie. You tried to lock me out of my own home.”

“It’s our home now,” I said. “We are married, Carl. That means what is yours is mine.”

“Not this building,” he said. “My father built this place. Every brick.”

I took a slow breath, letting my anger settle into something cold and sharp.