Half that house should’ve been mine anyway.
The down payment had come from my share of our divorce settlement. A settlement Mark had agreed to. Signed. In front of a judge. A settlement that had been fair—more than fair to him, honestly, because I’d been too tired to fight him on the boat or his retirement account.
He’d agreed to it.
And then he’d decided he wanted more.
Rachel glanced over. “Diane. You’ve gone white.”
I read it to her.
She was quiet for a full mile.
Then she said, “He planned this before you even closed.”
“Yes.”
“He planned it around my birthday.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you’d come to my house, because you always do.”
I nodded.
She gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles turned pale. “That man sat at our Thanksgiving table for twenty-seven years.”
“I know.”
“He ate my sweet potato casserole.”
