By morning, I’d already made three calls: my divorce attorney, a forensic tech, and a judge I’d tried cases in front of for years.
When you’re a lawyer, you don’t scream. You prepare.
I went home the next day calm, steady, lethal.
Patrick was in the kitchen when I walked in.
“Gee! You’re back early!” he said, too bright.
“Sacramento was canceled,” I replied. “Good thing. Saves me the trouble of telling you we’re done.”
His smile cracked. “What?”
I slid a flash drive across the counter. “Watch it. Or don’t. The judge already has a copy.”
The color drained from his face. “Georgia, we can talk about this—”
“Oh, we will,” I said. “In court.”
