Fifty thousand was the figure, and it was already on the way.

“You still care,” he said.

“Say whatever you like, but nobody lets a sixty-five-year-old woman walk out of a courthouse unless they still care.”

Walt came down last, carrying Gloria’s cardigan over his arm, and stopped in front of his son.

He looked him dead in the eye, something I hadn’t seen him do in five years.

“I sat at that table every Sunday,” Walt said.

“For three years I knew about that condo.