She had survived a brutal divorce three years earlier and come through with both her dignity and retirement account intact.
When I called her at two in the morning the previous October, sobbing about the hotel receipt and Brooke’s perfume, she gave me one piece of advice.
“Do not use anyone connected to Grant. Get your own lawyer. A good one.”
Then she gave me Daniel’s number.
Daniel glanced toward downtown traffic.
“Patricia holding court over lunch? Two hours minimum. Probably three. We have more than enough time.”
I looked through the window at the courthouse disappearing behind us.
“Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“Allison,” Daniel said, pulling into traffic, “I’ve practiced law for twenty-six years. I have never been more certain of anything.”
Then he smiled slightly.
“That house is yours. It has always been yours. And in roughly three hours, the Monroe family is going to discover something the state of Georgia has known for more than a year.”
