My father had died forty-eight hours earlier. His mistress had worn my dress to the funeral. There were emails in front of me suggesting my husband had been planning around my father’s death like it was a quarterly earnings report. And still he went with you’re upset.
I leaned against the desk and looked at him. Really looked.
Fifteen years is long enough to memorize a person’s face by the map of it. I knew the notch in his left eyebrow from a college soccer injury. I knew the tiny white scar on his chin from a Thanksgiving knife accident. I knew the exact expression he wore when he wanted to sound reasonable while lying through all his teeth.
He wore it now.
“Blackwood told me you have thirty days to vacate,” I said. “If you make this difficult, I’ll enjoy shortening the process.”
“Natalie, be rational.”
“You brought your girlfriend to my father’s funeral in my stolen dress.”
“She shouldn’t have come.”
“But she did.”
“That wasn’t my idea.”
I thought about the way Becca had sat in the front row, glowing with confidence right until the money turned out not to be his. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t find you credible.”
He dragged a hand through his hair again. “She thought—”