By morning, I’d already made three calls: my divorce attorney, a forensic tech, and a judge I’d tried cases in front of for years.
When you’re a lawyer, you don’t scream. You prepare.
I went home the next day calm, steady, lethal.
Patrick was in the kitchen when I walked in.
“Gee! You’re back early!” he said, too bright.
“Sacramento was canceled,” I replied. “Good thing. Saves me the trouble of telling you we’re done.”
His smile cracked. “What?”
I slid a flash drive across the counter. “Watch it. Or don’t. The judge already has a copy.”
The color drained from his face. “Georgia, we can talk about this—”
“Oh, we will,” I said. “In court.”
Then Molly stepped into the doorway and froze.
“Perfect timing,” I said.
“Georgia, I can explain—” she stammered.
I actually laughed. “Explain what? Grooming my son? Planning to take my kids, my house, my life?”
“Patrick said—”
“I don’t care what he said. You’re finished here.”
Continue reading on the next page 👇
