My Husband Let Her Imitate His Dead Lover

Synopsis

The divorce papers were twelve pages long. I had drafted them myself, which felt right. No one else in Manhattan knew Callan Crawford's assets the way I did. No one else knew which holding companies were shells and which ones had teeth. I set the folder on the edge of my desk, aligned the pen beside it, and turned my coffee cup so the handle faced east. Eleven p.m. Forty-first floor. The city spread out below me like a circuit board—all those lit windows, all those lives running their quiet algorithms behind the glass. I had been a divorce attorney for nine years. I had sat across from women who wept, women who screamed, women who went very still and did not move for a long time.