“And his mistress just locked him inside it.”

I picked up the copy of the altered power of attorney from the mahogany coffee table.

The blue ink of Sierra Vaughn’s signature stared back at me, precise and aggressive, forged right over my husband’s printed name.

Eight days later, at nine in the morning on January twentieth, the mahogany doors of Courtroom 302 swung open onto the cold fifth-floor hallway.

Cole sat at the petitioner’s table in a slate wool suit tailored perfectly to his shoulders.