Richard turned.
“I know exactly what she owed you.”
He paused.
“Nothing.”
I think some part of me had expected freedom to feel like a door opening.
It didn’t.
It felt like the floor disappearing.
I sank into the nearest chair.
“No.”
Richard crouched so his face was level with mine.
“Emily.”
“No. Michael had debts.”
“He did not.”
“Margaret showed me statements.”
“Fabricated.”
“Loans.”
“Corporate obligations that never touched your personal assets.”
“His life insurance?”
“Two-point-eight million dollars.”
My breath stopped.
Richard’s next words came slowly.
“You and your daughters were the beneficiaries.”
I looked at Margaret.
She looked away.
That hurt more than the slap.
Because suddenly I saw six years.
Every night beside the laundry.
Every school form I signed with a borrowed pen.
Every fever I treated with store-brand medicine while believing we were surviving charity.
Every time Olivia asked why we could not leave.
