Matthew’s uncle called Grace’s office and offered to testify.
He said he’d suspected something for years but never had proof.
He’d seen the same pattern with Catherine.
He’d said nothing then.
He wasn’t going to stay silent now.
The annulment was granted.
My grandmother’s house was mine.
My savings were mine.
The trust document Margaret had prepared was ruled fraudulent and void.
Matthew was charged with fraud and bigamy.
His lawyer negotiated a plea.
He got eighteen months.
Margaret was named as a co-conspirator in the civil suit.
She lost her own house — the one she’d been living in, which turned out to be partly funded by Catherine’s transferred assets.
I heard about it from Grace.
“The plea deal went through,” she said.
“He’s in.
Eighteen months.”
“Good.”
“Margaret’s assets were seized this morning.
She’s moving in with her sister in Ohio.”
“Good.”
“Claire —” She paused.
“I keep wanting to call you that.
You never actually told me your first name.
I’ve been calling you ‘my client’ this whole time.”
I almost laughed.
After everything, Grace still didn’t know my name.
I’d been “the client” and “Matthew’s wife” in every document.
“It’s Claire,” I said.
“Claire,” she repeated.
“It’s done.”
“Thank you, Grace.”
“You did the hard part.
I just filed the papers.”
—
Diane came to see me a week after the sentencing.
She brought coffee and a small box.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Open it.”
Inside was a photograph.
A young woman — maybe early thirties — standing in front of a small house.
She was smiling.
