The next three days unfolded in a strange, suspended animation.

Rebecca and Philip moved through the house like ghosts, careful to keep up appearances in front of Alice while barely acknowledging me when she wasn’t looking.

They’d retreated to strategize, I knew—weighing their limited options against my ironclad evidence.

On Wednesday evening, as Alice worked on homework at the kitchen table, Philip finally approached me in the garden where I was deadheading roses.

“We’ve discussed your terms,” he said without preamble.

I kept pruning, refusing to show eagerness for their decision.