The torn black-and-white photograph of Marcus Thorne fluttered down onto the wet gravel of the driveway.

Julian walked past me into the house, took a thick white folder out of his leather briefcase, and tossed it across the polished mahogany dining table.

The folder slid over the dark finish and hit the porcelain vase Eleanor had filled with hydrangeas that morning.

“That’s the emergency petition for immediate dissolution,” Julian said, pulling off his leather gloves.

“I filed it with the county clerk at four o’clock.”

Eleanor sat at the far end of the dining table, her hands folded neatly beside a china saucer.