He laughed.
It was the same laugh I had once loved across dinner tables and rainy Sunday mornings. Now it sounded like a lock clicking shut.
“With what money?”
Mark reached into the inside pocket of his suit, took out a business card, and placed it on my blanket.
Grant Legal Foundation.
Patient Advocacy Division.
I read it twice.
Then I smiled.
“With help,” I said.
Evan scoffed. “From who? Some charity nurse?”
Mark leaned closer to the phone.
“From me.”
Silence.
“Who is this?” Evan demanded.
“Marcus Grant.”
Another silence.
This one was longer.
When Evan spoke again, the confidence had thinned.
“Grant? As in—”
“Yes.”
Mark’s voice was quiet. Almost bored.
“Jessica is recovering from major surgery. If you contact her again today for any reason other than to apologize, your messages will be forwarded to counsel. If you remove property from the marital home, destroy financial records, cancel insurance, or attempt to pressure her while she is medically vulnerable, that will also be documented.”
Evan said nothing.
Mark continued, “And Mr. Hale?”
“What?”
“You miscalculated.”
He reached over and ended the call.
I stared at the phone.
Then at him.
Then back at the phone.
“That was…”
