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ROB JACOBSON IS STANDING at one of the main bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, back in his own house in Sagaponack, looking out across the backyard and the dunes to the Atlantic.

As always, Rob Jacobson doesn’t so much appreciate the view as he does that it is his view.

“Well,” Claire Jacobson says from the bed behind him, “that was even rougher than I remember, mister. You even left some bruises.”

“Not the first time,” he says without turning, seeing the waves begin to build in the distance. “And they’ve always healed in the past, haven’t they?”

“Come back to bed,” she says. “Says a glutton for punishment.”

“Not what I was hearing a few minutes ago.”

He continues to stare at the water. Jane was always telling him how the ocean filled her with a sense of peace. But Rob just doesn’t get it.

“Well,” she says, “you won again, didn’t you?”

“I always win,” he says.

He opens the French doors to let in the breeze.

It’s back to being all mine, he gloats.

Knowing him, he’s already thinking about going out tonight, hitting a couple of the kids’ bars, having some fun. Meeting someone new.

“Eric still won’t see me,” she says. “I keep trying. But that lawyer you hired, McGoey, keeps giving me the same message.”

“To leave him alone,” Rob Jacobson says. “The way he says we always did. When I did get in to see him at the jail, for about a minute, I thought he might want to talk. But only long enough so he could tell me to fuck off to my face.”

“But you’re going to pay McGoey’s fee anyway?” Claire asks.

“What can I tell you, honey,” he says. “I know from experience what it’s like to hate your father that much.”

He turns finally and walks back toward the bed. She has covered herself up with a sheet. She really is very attractive, and still has some body on her, for a woman her age.

“I still hate you sometimes,” she says. “But I have missed you.”

“Have you?” he says. “Because my friend Sonny Blum shared some photos with me the other day.”

He reaches over and picks up his phone from where he left it, on the nightstand on what he still considers his side of the goddamn bed.

He scrolls through photos until he comes to the ones of Claire in bed with Robby Sassoon.

Rob Jacobson hands his wife the phone.

“How much did you miss me, exactly?” he asks.

Before she can even reply, he slaps her hard across her face, knocking her to the side and nearly all the way out of the bed.

Claire Jacobson screams then, right before he slaps her again, harder this time.

Then he is climbing on top of her.

But she fights him as he tries to pin her arms, and manages to roll out from underneath him, pushing herself back toward the ornate headboard that has made it all the way out here from the town house in Manhattan.

He crawls toward her, but not quickly enough, because then Claire Jacobson is reaching under her pillow and coming up with the gun she keeps there.

He laughs, even with the gun pointed straight at him.

“Really?” he says, but stopping where he is. “Who the fuck in this family isn’t a shooter?”

“Really,” Claire says, and then shoots him in the middle of the chest, and then again, and keeps firing until the gun is empty and the shock is gone from his face.

And the smirk, at long last.

She calmly watches as his body slides off the bed to the floor.

Then she is the one reaching for her own phone, on the nightstand closest to her.

The number is on speed dial.

Jane Smith picks up on the first ring.

“I just killed Rob,” Claire Jacobson says. “I’m going to need a lawyer.”