My husband tapped his pen once against the table, annoyed. Then again. A tiny sound, but it scraped against my nerves because I knew it well. That tapping meant he still believed time belonged to him.
“Your Honor,” his attorney said with a fixed smile, “we were under the impression all financial disclosures had already been finalized.”
The judge didn’t answer at once. She opened the folder with the careful precision of someone handling something significant. Paper brushed against paper. In a room full of held breath, the sound seemed louder than it should have.
She scanned the first page.
Then she looked up—not at my husband, not at his lawyer.
At me.
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