Across from me, my attorney, Marcus Hale, was reviewing a packet of documents in the passenger seat of his car.
“Do I want to know?” he asked.
“No.”
“Vivian?”
“Yes.”
“Champagne?”
“Apparently.”
Marcus nodded.
“Predictable.”
We were parked two blocks from the courthouse in Marlowe City.
My divorce decree sat in a folder on my lap.
Eight years of marriage reduced to signatures, stamped copies, account numbers, and a final order restoring me to the life I had before Nolan.
Or at least what remained of it.
Marcus checked his watch.
“Do you still want to go?”
I looked toward the courthouse.
