Three sharp metallic clicks bounced off the window frame.

“Vance is a twenty-dollar strip mall legal aid who doesn’t understand corporate restructuring,” David whispered.

“You’re signing page four right now.”

“I’m thirty-one years old,” I said, hooking my thumb in the hem of my sweater to keep my arm steady.

“My name is on the main mortgage for three hundred and twelve thousand dollars.

I’m not signing away my legal right to this house without a full accounting of where our fourteen thousand dollars in savings went.”

“You don’t have any legal right to that money,” he said.