“Agreed,” Blackwood said dryly. “But that doesn’t stop desperate people from filing motions.”
Desperate.
That word followed Grant everywhere now. People who had once described him as polished or ambitious had updated their vocabulary after the funeral. Desperate. Opportunistic. Overreaching. A few of his colleagues sent me carefully worded condolence notes that managed to communicate both sympathy and professional distancing. Becca, for all her bad judgment, had apparently disappeared from the firm within a week.
Good.
The only person who still seemed to think charm could solve this was Grant himself.
He kept trying to contact me. New numbers. New email addresses. A letter mailed to the cottage in an envelope so expensive it practically hissed. The messages cycled through apology, blame, nostalgia, self-pity, and once—truly impressively—an attempt to suggest that the affair had happened because he felt “financially sidelined in the marriage.”
I did not respond.
One Friday afternoon, after six straight hours of document review, I drove to the marina and took Integrity out alone.