“Read the rest of it.

It’s more than fair.”

I flipped to the third page and ran my thumb down the margin, past the furniture, past the accounts.

Then I came to the section labeled Marital Residence and stopped.

“You’re asking for this house.”

“I’m asking for my home,” he said, and his voice turned soft and satisfied, the way it did when he’d been sitting on something all afternoon.

“The house out on East Desert Fairways.”

“Five years, Harper.

I’ve lived in this house five years.”

I looked down at the slab of the island.

We had picked it out in a warehouse off the Black Canyon one Tuesday.

Eleven thousand four hundred dollars, paid by company check, with my signature at the bottom of the slip.

“Your name isn’t on this house.”

“My name’s on the marriage,” he said.