“Recovered what you stole,” I said.
The lead detective told them, evenly, that warrants had been issued: conspiracy, wire fraud, forgery, theft, obstruction of justice.
Delphine, additionally, for perjury — for the sworn testimony she’d given in the ruins of my marriage.
It turned out Weston’s own lawyer had advised him to surrender himself that very morning, quietly, before the warrants were served.
He’d been told exactly how this ended.
And still he had chosen, instead, to spend the morning at the hospital, celebrating a birthday and stopping to humiliate me one last time, because Weston had never in his life been able to believe that the moment might not belong to him.
He had spent his whole life certain that cruelty was a form of power.
The handcuffs corrected him.
Their click was a small sound, almost polite, and it landed on my ears louder than every insult he had ever aimed at me across every quiet, careful year.
As they walked him out, he twisted back toward me one last time, and the mask was entirely gone now.