Serena’s face stiffened.
Vivian’s eyes flashed. “You ungrateful little parasite.”
Owen reached for me. “Mommy, pick me up.”
A week ago, I would have folded.
Now I looked down at him and said, “Owen, your mother is standing beside you.”
Serena’s eyes filled instantly with beautiful fake tears. “How can you say that to a child?”
“How could you give birth to three children, hide behind me, and watch my daughter suffer?” I asked.
Vivian raised her hand to slap me.
Lily screamed.
She ran from behind the sofa and threw herself in front of my legs, arms spread wide. “Don’t hit my mommy!”
Vivian’s hand stopped in the air.
For one second, everyone froze.
Then Vivian lowered her hand and bent toward Lily with a smile so cruel it turned my blood cold.
“You have your mother’s low blood,” she said. “No wonder you act like trash.”
Before I could move, a man’s voice came from the stairwell.
“That statement, combined with the raised hand and prior threats, will be useful in court.”
A tall man in a dark overcoat climbed the final steps, carrying a leather briefcase. His hair was silver at the temples, his glasses black-rimmed, his expression calm enough to frighten rich people.
“Mrs. Sterling,” he said, nodding to me. “Nathaniel Brooks. Brooks & Weller. We spoke this morning.”
My lawyer.
Vivian stared at him. “Who are you?”
“The attorney representing Grace Holloway Sterling in her divorce, custody claim, civil fraud claim, and any related criminal complaints arising from intimidation, coercion, and threats against her minor child.”
Serena gripped Vivian’s arm.
Nathaniel looked at both of them. “My associate is downstairs and heard much of this exchange. The hallway camera also appears to be functioning. I suggest you leave before this becomes even more useful.”
Vivian’s face drained of color.
“You’ll regret this,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “For once, I won’t.”
They left the basket on my doormat like evidence of a failed performance.
Nathaniel stepped inside, placed his briefcase on my cheap kitchen table, and opened his laptop.
“Mrs. Sterling,” he said, “I reviewed the summary you sent. Now I need to see the flash drive.”
I pulled the black drive from the paint tin.
His expression changed as he opened the folders.
DNA reports. Clinic invoices. Emails. Bank transfers. Property records. Messages between Everett, Serena, and Vivian.
Then the offshore accounts.
Then the city zoning documents.
Nathaniel leaned back slowly.
“This is not just a divorce,” he said. “This is dynamite.”
PART 3
Nathaniel Brooks did not scare easily. I learned that within twenty minutes.
He scrolled through the files with the focus of a surgeon and the patience of a man who knew rich families were never as clean as their Christmas cards. Every few minutes, he stopped, copied a file name into his notes, and muttered things like “wire fraud,” “tax exposure,” “public corruption,” and “custody leverage.”
I sat across from him with my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee I had forgotten to drink.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“For Everett?” Nathaniel said. “Potentially catastrophic.”
That word should have made me happy.
It didn’t.
It made me tired.