Marcus Vance slid the certified court order into his worn leather briefcase and pulled the brass latches shut with two quick clicks.

“The chancery clerk will log the official entry before two o’clock,” Marcus said.

Greg sat beside me at the oak counsel table, staring straight ahead at the high wooden bench Judge Thomas had just left.

“Is it finished, Claire?” Greg asked.

His voice was dry and quiet, stripped of any color.

“It is finished,” I said.

I reached over and touched his wrist, feeling the faint, rapid pulse under his skin.

Sophie stepped through the swinging gallery gate, holding Greg’s wool winter coat over her arm, her cheeks flushed red.