For the first time that morning, I saw uncertainty replace anger.
He called someone and paced toward the vacant lot.
“Pick up,” he muttered.
His attorney apparently did.
Logan immediately began talking over him.
“I’m standing where my house used to be.
What did she do?”
He listened.
“No, I don’t care about the trust.
We were married.”
Another pause.
His shoulders changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The stiffness went out of them.
“What do you mean you emailed me?”
I looked at Claire.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t need to.
Logan turned away from all of us and lowered his voice.
“You should have called me.”
A longer silence.
“I was in Italy.”
Claire leaned toward me.
“He was notified three different ways.”
I nodded.
I knew.
His attorney had emailed him.
Certified notice had gone to his office.
Copies had been provided electronically through the divorce proceeding.
But Logan had spent the week before his wedding delegating anything he considered unpleasant.
He had ignored documents because he was certain the ending had already been written.
My role was to leave.
His role was to return.
That was the entire plan.
He ended the call and walked back.
“Where is it?”
Lily finally spoke.
“Where is what?”
Logan looked at the empty lot.
“The house.”
I glanced at my daughter.
Her face was pale from exhaustion and confusion.
“It’s safe,” I said.
Marcus frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your rooms are safe.
Your things are safe.
Nothing of yours was thrown away.”
Logan stepped between us.
“Stop talking to them like this is normal.
You stole a house.”
“You can’t steal your own property,” Claire said.
His head snapped toward her.
“Then where is it?”
That was the part Logan hadn’t imagined.
