A lunch for twelve would easily cost more than a thousand dollars.
And Patricia would put it on her American Express without blinking.
I watched them drive away.
I did not cry.
That mattered to me.
I stood outside the Fulton County Courthouse and watched my ex-husband’s family leave to celebrate what they believed was my defeat.
And I didn’t shed one tear.
Instead, I climbed into Daniel Reyes’s sedan.
He was waiting at the curb with the engine running and the air conditioning blasting against the July heat.
I closed the passenger door.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You did well,” he finally said. “That was harder than it looked.”
I placed the folder on my lap.
My hands were surprisingly steady.
“How long before they get home?”
Daniel checked his watch.
He was in his mid-fifties, silver-haired, careful, and the kind of attorney who could make even disaster sound manageable if the paperwork was properly prepared.
My friend Renata had recommended him.
