I set my purse down, walked right past them, and headed to the small desk in the corner. That was where I kept the reality of our lives—the bills, the insurance correspondence, and the mortgage statements that Marcus never bothered to acknowledge. My hands remained perfectly steady, which surprised me more than anything else.
Inside the drawer sat a folder I had begun assembling the very week I found out he had used my credit card to bankroll a so-called “business venture” with his friends—a project that turned out to be nothing more than high-stakes poker nights and sports gambling.
I walked back into the living area and dropped the stack of papers directly onto Marcus’s lap.
He scowled, flipping through the top page with confusion. “What is this supposed to be?”
“Divorce papers,” I stated. “Since you are so convinced that this is your house, let’s go ahead and make everything official.”
Diane’s mocking laughter died instantly. The color drained from Marcus’s face so rapidly it looked as if someone had pulled a metaphorical plug.
“You cannot be serious,” he whispered, suddenly sitting up straight.
“Oh, I am completely serious,” I said. “And before you attempt to threaten me again—I suggest you check the attachments.”
Marcus turned to the next page, scanning the bold headers, and his mouth fell open without a sound escaping. Diane reached out with stiff, trembling fingers to grab the documents, reading just enough to grasp the situation.
Then, the handle of the front door rattled violently—someone was trying to force their way in.
