I was discharged Thursday afternoon.

Jonathan had arranged for a car.

I didn't go back to the house immediately.

Instead, we sat in a conference room at his firm on the fourth floor of a building downtown, and for two hours I read documents I had never been shown.

The trust.

The property deed.

A letter my father had written and sealed, addressed to me, dated three months before he passed.

Jonathan had been holding it, waiting for the right moment.

I read it twice before I could speak.

My father had written in the careful, slightly formal way he always had, the way that used to make me tease him at the dinner table.

But the last paragraph was different.

*Ava, if you are reading this with Jonathan present, it means something has gone wrong.

I hope I am mistaken.

I hope the man you chose is exactly who he appears to be.

But I have learned, in seventy-one years, that the people who rush toward money rarely announce themselves honestly.

Protect what is yours.

Not because it is money.

Because it is the life I built for you, and you deserve to live it on your own terms.*

I folded the letter and put it in my bag.

"He knew," I said.

"He suspected," Jonathan said carefully.

"He didn't have proof.

But he made sure the structure was sound regardless."

"I want to go home."

Jonathan looked at me.

"To the house," I said.

"My house.

I want to be there when Ethan arrives tomorrow."

"Ava, I'd recommend—"

"I'm not running." I picked up my bag.

"I've been adjusting and shrinking and apologizing in that house for three years.

I'm not leaving it to her for one more night."

He studied me for a moment.

"I'll have someone there with you."

"You don't need to."

"I know I don't need to." He stood and reached for his jacket.

"I'm going to anyway."

When we arrived at the house, Diane's car was in the driveway.

She was in the kitchen.

She had cooked — the pot roast, finished, sitting in the center of the stove.

The table was set for two.

She looked up when I walked in and something crossed her face too quickly for me to name.

"You're home," she said.

"I live here."

She turned back to the stove.

"I thought you'd want a proper meal.

After the hospital."

I set my bag on the counter.

"Diane.

Sit down."

She kept her back to me.

"I'm just finishing—"

"Sit down."

She turned.

She looked at me — really looked at me — and something in my face made her pull out the nearest chair.

I sat across from her.

"What did Ethan tell you when he called you this afternoon?"

Her hands went flat on the table.

"He was worried about you."

"What else?"

"He said Jonathan Reed was overstepping."

"What else?"

Her jaw moved.

"He said not to say anything more about the estate until he got home."

"And the woman in Asheville?"

The color left her face for the second time in two days.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Serena Voss." I watched her eyes.

"How long have you known?"

Diane's hands pressed harder against the table.

She looked down at them.

"He's my son," she said finally.

"That's not an answer."

"He made a mistake.

Men make mistakes.

That doesn't mean—"

"How long, Diane?"

She looked up.

Her eyes were wet, but her voice was steady.

"Almost two years."

Two years.

I had been adjusting myself, apologizing, shrinking, for a marriage that had been a performance for two years.

"You let me believe I was the problem," I said.

She said nothing.

"Every criticism.

Every complaint.

Every time you made me feel like I wasn't enough." My voice didn't shake.

I was surprised by that.

"You knew.

And you kept going."

"I was protecting my son."

"You were protecting a lie."

She stood up.

"You don't understand what it is to love a child.

To watch them struggle and want to—"

"Get out of my house."

The words landed in the kitchen like something dropped from a height.

Diane stared at me.

"Ava—"

"You heard me." I stood.

"Take your things.

Leave your key on the counter.

And do not come back until Ethan and I have had a conversation that you are not part of."

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

She looked toward the hallway, as if Jonathan might appear and moderate.

He didn't.

She picked up her purse from the counter.

She walked to the door.

She stopped with her hand on the frame and turned back.

"He does love you," she said.

"In his way."

"I know," I said.

"That's the saddest part."

The door closed.

I stood in the kitchen alone for a long moment.

Then I picked up my phone and sent Ethan one message.

*Come home tonight.

We need to talk.*

His reply came in under a minute.

*I thought I was coming Friday.*

I typed back: *Tonight, Ethan.*

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then: *Is Jonathan Reed going to be there?*

I set the phone face-down on the counter.

He already knew everything.