Victor looked up.
I answered.
“Me.”
Melissa’s eyes flicked toward him.
Grace displayed a bank statement dated January 2005.
$126,400.
The remaining balance of the inheritance my father had left me after he died.
I had been thirty-one.
Victor had been thirty-three.
We had been living in a two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat.
He had been a talented sous-chef with terrible credit.
I had been managing banquet operations at a hotel.
We had a dream.
At least I thought we did.
“I transferred one hundred twenty thousand dollars into the restaurant account,” I said.
Judge Monroe looked toward Victor.
“Mr. Hale’s contribution?”
Grace answered.
“Four thousand eight hundred dollars.”
A laugh escaped someone in the gallery.
Victor whipped around.
The bailiff said, “Order.”
The memory came back to me with brutal clarity.
Victor sitting on our apartment floor in 2005.
Blueprints spread around us.
His socks mismatched.
His hair too long.
