Chapter 4

I came out of the restroom, but I didn't go back to my office.

Instead, I called the lawyer holding my mother's estate.

"Clay James, I want my mother's keepsake back."

Half an hour later, Clay and I walked into the studio with proof of ownership.

I set the documents down in front of Summer.

"Give me the rough stone back."

Her fingers tightened around the carving knife, and something flickered in her eyes.

"Fern, what's gotten into you? Clyde just gave me this stone."

"We're best friends. Whatever it is, we can talk it out. Why bring a lawyer into it?"

The words had barely left Summer's mouth when I heard quick footsteps at the door.

Clyde pushed it open, saw Clay, and his face went dark at once.

"Fern, do you really have to drag a stranger in and make this so ugly?"

I looked at him.

So in his eyes, taking back my mother's keepsake counted as making a scene.

Clay slid the proof of ownership across to him.

"Mr. Henson, this rough stone belongs to Ms. Summers. It was taken and used without her permission, and she has every right to reclaim it immediately."

Clyde glanced at the papers, and his brow pressed lower.

"This is a family matter between us."

"Not for much longer."

He stiffened.

Summer set down the carving knife right away, her eyes rimming red.

"Fern, aren't we best friends? I really didn't know this was your mother's keepsake."

She held the rough stone out to me, but her fingers were slow to let go.

"I didn't do it on purpose. If it means this much to you, of course I'll give it back."

I gripped the stone and pulled it free.

The cracked edge dug into my palm, a dull ache.

Clyde reached out to stop me.

"Fern, Summer already apologized. Do you have to take it this far?"

I stepped around his hand and slipped the stone into the evidence bag.

"It's mine. I'm taking it."

Then I turned and walked out.

Behind me, a few seconds of silence.

Clyde called my name.

I didn't look back.

Back home, I packed the rest of my clothes into my suitcase and bought a ticket on the next flight to Paris.

Our photo was still sitting on the desk.

In it, he had his arms around me from behind, both of us wearing matching engagement rings.

Back then he'd said he would never let go.

I tore the photo in half, then dropped it into the trash along with the engagement ring.

Next I threw the stomach-illness diagnosis and the agreement I'd signed five years ago into the pot I used to boil my medicine.

I struck a match and watched the flame curl slowly up the pages.

The millions in funding, the five years of credit that carried his name, the six months of bitter medicine I'd swallowed for him, all of it turned to ash.

Downstairs, the taxi had already arrived.

I wheeled my suitcase out and closed every one of my domestic accounts.

The driver asked where I was going.

"The airport."

Outside the window, the house I'd lived in for five years grew smaller and smaller.

I didn't look back.

This time, it was really over.