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“Your Honor,” Keith’s lawyer cuts in, smoothing his silk tie. “If I may—Mr. Henley may have made some questionable financial decisions, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ms. Blake’s earning potential has dramatically increased in the last two years. As a forensic accountant with several high-profile clients...”

“Don’t forget my art business,” I interrupt sweetly.

Keith glares at me, jaw tight, like he’s trying to sear a hole through my skull with his eyes. The judge raises an eyebrow in that subtle, dangerous way that says he’s one misplaced word from tossing Keith out of the courtroom—and maybe into contempt.

“She’s being facetious,” Keith’s lawyer snaps.

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” I reply, managing to sound sincere. “I sell limited-edition prints of men crying into their empty bank accounts. Very niche. Very lucrative. Limited palette, maximum catharsis.”

The courtroom chuckles—an amused ripple of judgment that rolls across the room. Keith goes red, neck first, like a thermometer exploding under pressure. He fidgets in his seat, humiliated and cornered, the walls of his little fantasy collapsing brick by brick under the weight of facts and receipts.

The judge clears his throat and leans forward. “After reviewing the evidence, it’s clear Mr. Henley deliberately attempted to conceal marital assets. As such, Ms. Blake is entitled to half of all jointly acquired wealth. Each party is accorded their personal items as well as any accumulated after their separation." Keith starts to rise. His attorney clamps a hand on his arm. The judge’s glare finishes the job. "Furthermore, the court finds no legal basis to award Mr. Henley any percentage of Ms. Blake’s future income.”

Keith opens his mouth, probably to whine.

“Save it,” the judge says, and bangs the gavel—ending one phase of my life and heralding the start of another.

Outside the courthouse, I squint into the Texas sun. Valerie claps a hand on my shoulder, victorious.

“That,” she says, “was surgical.”

I smile for real this time. “Thanks. I do like a clean cut.”

I don’t look back. Not at Keith. Not at the courthouse. Not at the years I spent rationalizing red flags and mistaking lies for loyalty.

I walk away, heels clicking sharply against the concrete, then pause just outside the parking garage. I reach down, unbuckle the straps, and slip them off one by one. My bare feet sting against the hot pavement, but it still feels better than the ache those heels left in my arches.

In the back of my Range Rover, two suitcases sit packed along with everything I’ve decided to take—clothes, my sketch pads, a locked fireproof box full of client files, some personal art, and mementos and one faded photo of me and Dad. That’s it. Everything else stays behind, including the version of me that tolerated Keith Henley for far too long.

I toss the heels in the trash can, not bothering to look back as they tumble in. A small, satisfying thud follows. I slide behind the wheel, fingers brushing over the worn leather steering wheel like I’m greeting an old friend. I crank up the A/C and open the sunroof anyway—Keith always said it messed up his hair. Good. Let it mess up everything. Let the wind tear through whatever is left of the last five years and carry it right out of the vehicle, out of this city, out of my goddamn life.

Engine humming, freedom stretching wide in every direction. I turn on Mary Chapin Carpenter and leave Houston singing'Rhythm of the Blues', like a soliloquy of all that has gone before. As I leave the city, I decide to head southeast… Galveston sounds good.

CHAPTER 1

SUTTON

Sookie is dead.

The text message from Lila hits like a slap just as I pull into my driveway. I glance down to peruse it and stop cold, sitting in the Range Rover. Lila isn’t just some casual acquaintance—she’s one of my closest friends, the kind who brings soup when I’m sick and wine when I’m not. She knew Sookie too. We all spent holidays and long weekends orbiting each other’s living rooms, sharing inside jokes and playlists. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

I stare at the text for a full minute, blinking like it’ll unscramble into something else. Something fixable. Something that makes sense. But no. It’s there in black and white, plain as day, from Lila:

You okay? I just overheard some cops talking. Sookie’s dead. They say it was a break-in.

I reread it again. And again. And still, the words hit like a punch to the sternum—hard enough to leave a bruise I can’t see but feel with every shaky breath. My mind blanks, then floodsall at once. I blink at the screen, waiting for it to morph into something else, some other story. But it doesn’t. It won’t.

Sookie can’t be dead.

She was just texting me dumb memes last night. She sent one of a cat stealing a croissant and said it reminded her of me when I spotted a new consignment shop. I laughed so hard I snorted wine. That was less than twelve hours ago.

I head into my house, drop my phone and groceries on the kitchen counter, gripping the edge, knuckles white. My townhouse, usually a cozy cacophony of playlists, kettle hisses, and the occasional squeaky floorboard, feels suddenly too quiet, too still. The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s loaded, humming with tension like the air before a thunderstorm. Every creak of the walls feels amplified, suspicious. Like the whole house knows something’s wrong and doesn’t want to say it out loud.

I look out the window to see a uniformed cop putting up yellow, crime scene tape. I walk outside and approach him casually as he stands just outside the taped off area. His jaw is tight, and he has the look of someone trying to hold a story together.

"What happened?"

He glances over at me, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Break-in gone bad," he said flatly.