“You understand,” he said, “that I have my own reasons here. She used my firm. She used my name. If this were only about your marriage, I’d refer you to a good family attorney and wish you luck.” A pause.

“It isn’t only about your marriage. But I want you to know I’m not doing you a favor. We happen to want the same thing.”

“I don’t just want a divorce, Harrison,” I said, and my voice was steady in a way it hadn’t been in three years.

“And I don’t just want Oakridge. I want her to take down her own theater — the one she built, with the audience she gathered, in front of every person she convinced I was the problem.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then something sharp moved at the corner of his mouth. “Consider it done,” he said.

Chapter 9 — Ten Seconds

Which brings us back to the hospital corridor, and the watch on my wrist, and my family arranged in front of me waiting for me to fall apart. “Ten seconds,” I murmured.