th rage. "You can't sell t

y. "You were just living in it. The deed is in

y shirt. "You son of a bitch! After everyt

for me, Jenny. And you've done nothing for th

ieked. "You're just the guy who mixes the

t. We'll handle this. Don't worry." He gave me a smug little smil

t them. "Get ou

st stood there, her chest heaving. Then, with a final, venomo

oing in the suddenly quiet house. I didn't f

ly occupied. The expensive furniture she had picked out, the art she had chosen. N

y phone and ca

it's Eth

I heard about the awa

ivorce papers. And I need to start the

er end of the line. "Whoa, o

ght," I said. "I'll send you the detail

is one to a real estate agent. The machi