Or perhaps she did.
Perhaps she was surprised I remembered.
I left anyway.
Halfway toward the motel, Derek called.
“You think you can just walk away from her?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a coward.”
“Maybe.”
That answer bothered him.
Men
like Derek need resistance.
Without it, their aggression has nowhere theatrical to
go.
“You’re not taking half that house.”
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“That isn’t your decision.”
“I’ll make it my decision.”
Then came the challenge.
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Five minutes in the ring.
If I survived without tapping or being knocked out, Derek would personally cover Claire’s share of the equity.
If I failed to appear, I would sign away my interest.
It was legally ridiculous.
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I knew that.
He knew it too.
But he also
knew pride could make people stupid.
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What Derek didn’t understand was that pride had been burned out of me twenty years earlier.
I didn’t accept because he insulted me.
I accepted because something in his wording made me suspicious.
“Her half of the equity.”
Not “your half.”
Not “the house.”
Her half.
Specific.
Prepared.
Financial.
Derek hung up.
sat in my truck outside a convenience store for ten minutes.
Then I made a call.
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Not to an old SEAL teammate.
Not to a lawyer.
To a woman named Rebecca Sloan, whom I had not spoken to in nearly nine years.
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She answered on the fourth ring.
“Cole?”
“Hi, Becca.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh, hell.”
Rebecca had served as an intelligence analyst attached to one of our overseas units before leaving government work and becoming a forensic accountant.
She was the smartest person I had ever known who carried three different
calculators.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“That phrase from you usually ends badly.”
“I think my wife and her boyfriend are planning something involving my house.”
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“How romantic.”
“I’m serious.”
