The cars.
The little construction company she had helped build before Preston ever learned how to talk like a man who owned people.
Outside the Delaware County courthouse, rain had darkened the sidewalk and left the morning smelling like wet wool, old leaves, and burnt coffee from the paper cup in her attorney’s hand.
Claire was thirty-four years old, eight months pregnant, and walking slowly because every step pulled at her back.
One hand stayed over her belly.
The other held the strap of her leather purse so tightly that the edge left a mark across her palm.
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