My husband had me sentenced to ten years for a two-million-dollar fraud I never committed, and in the courthouse corridor he pulled my grandmother’s ring off my finger and told me to enjoy it. I didn’t argue. I handed a folded piece of paper to the guard.

He had Brynn on his other arm. She is twenty-nine and she was wearing a cream coat and she had the good sense, at least, to look at the floor.

He took hold of my left hand — my hands were cuffed in front — and worked my wedding ring off my finger with his thumb. I closed my fist. It came off anyway.

He put it in his jacket pocket.

And he said, pleasantly, loud enough to carry the whole length of that corridor:

“Give me that. It was my grandmother’s. Enjoy your ten years. Brynn and I will work out what to do with your money. Say goodbye.”

Forty people.