He threw it against the wall.
The screen shattered.
Then he looked at the suitcase.
“Get out.”
I almost admired the confidence.
“What?”
“This is my house.”
“No, Arthur.”
He stared at me.
“The property is held by the Sterling Family Trust.”
His mouth opened.
“You signed it over after Dad died,” I reminded him.
“You wanted the estate-tax advantages.”
Beatrice made a small sound that might have been laughter.
Arthur rounded on her.
“Leave.”
She grabbed her bag.
“You told me this was your house.”
“Beatrice.”
“You told me Sterling was yours.”
“GET OUT!”
She ran.
The door slammed behind her.
Arthur and I were alone.
For the first time in seven years of marriage, there was no audience.
No board.
No employees.
No daughter.
Only us.
Arthur looked suddenly older.
He sank onto the sofa.
“Chloe’s really dead?”
My anger cracked.
“Yes.”
He looked at the floor.
