Greg was already sitting at the massive conference table when we walked in.

He’d lost weight. The arrogant polish was still there, but it looked brittle, like cracked glass.

His silver-haired attorney offered a fake, diplomatic smile.

Greg stood up. “Martha. Thank God. This has all gotten blown wildly out of proportion.”

I didn’t offer my hand. I didn’t even blink. I just sat down across from him.

His lawyer began a long, poetic monologue about grief. He claimed Greg had made “imperfect decisions under extreme psychological strain.” He argued that the insurance company was unfairly punishing a grieving widower.