She folded her arms tightly and tilted her head back, pulling her elbow six inches out of his reach.

“Don’t touch me, Ethan.”

“She’s staging a stunt,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a desperate low register.

“We can call my Denver attorney on speakerphone right now.”

“I spoke to your mother in the foyer,” Natalie said.

Her tone was direct, crisp, and polite.

“She told me about the miscarriage story you gave them eight years ago.”

Ethan took half a step back until his heel touched the brass fender of the unlit fireplace.