They knew. Somehow, without me saying a word, they understood. This wasn’t a breakup. This was a war. And they had already picked their side.
Exactly nineteen minutes later, a silver sedan that had seen better decades rattled up to the curb. It wasn’t a police car, and it wasn’t a luxury vehicle. It was a purely functional machine, much like the man who stepped out of it.
Richard Brennan wore a suit that was frayed at the cuffs, and he carried a leather briefcase that looked like it had survived a bombing. He had a face mapped with deep lines, the kind of face that had seen every variation of human greed and stupidity the legal system had to offer.
He walked up to me not with urgency, but with inevitable purpose.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Richard Brennan. Your mother’s attorney.”
He said it loud. Loud enough for the neighbors. Loud enough to drift through the open window where Vanessa was likely still wearing my robe.
“He’s inside,” I said simply.
