Charles Sterling was the king of that valley. He owned the timber mill that fed half the county. He controlled Sterling Valley Finance, which held the predatory mortgages on nearly every house in town.

The radio station, the town council, the air the residents breathed — all his.

The county sheriff, Thomas Landry, carved the roast at the Sterling manor on Sundays. Local judges enjoyed untraceable campaign contributions. Safety inspectors walked out of the lumber yard with thick envelopes weighing down their coats.

Miranda had been raised to believe the Sterling name was an impenetrable shield. During our brief, disastrous marriage, I had slowly learned that to her family, love was a polite synonym for ownership.

When I filed for divorce, I fought for joint custody. To the Sterlings, a judge’s gavel was background noise.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, my phone buzzed. Evelyn Sterling. The matriarch.