“Three months later,” Derek answered without a pause. “Irreconcilable differences. She’ll be emotionally devastated and she won’t fight it, and with the loan outstanding and the house as collateral, she’ll have to sell it to pay it off.” He paused just long enough to make my skin crawl, then added, “And I, as her brother and accountant, will offer to ‘help’ her with the sale.”
Then they laughed—three people who knew me, who had eaten at my table, who had hugged me at funerals and toasted me at my wedding—laughing with the satisfied certainty of people who believed they’d already won.
Under the bed, carpet fibers dug into my knees, my ring felt like it was burning through my skin, and my body shook so hard my teeth threatened to chatter, and Brianna turned playful, tilting her head as if I was a minor detail. “And her?” she asked, nodding toward the bed.
“Leave her alone,” Derek said, like he was ordering coffee. “The sleeping pills are strong. She’ll wake up around noon with a headache, and by then we’ll already be moving.”