It was this: Madeline Beaumont Hale’s continued involvement is not commercially useful.
Commercially useful.
I had once packed that man protein bars and waited up while he memorized zoning language at our kitchen island.
At the courthouse door, the stranger opened the folder and slid out a stapled set of documents on cream paper.
‘Edwin Cross,’ he said, glancing first at Dana, then at me. ‘Outside counsel for Beaumont Civic Development and the Beaumont Family Trust.’
Gregory’s mouth twitched into the kind of smile men use when they are still choosing charm over panic.
‘You have terrible timing,’ he said. ‘We just concluded a family matter.’
‘No,’ Edwin said. ‘You concluded a divorce.’
He held out the papers again.
Gregory didn’t take them.
