5. ABRAHAM
AbrAHAM
One Month Prior
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I pulled into one of the few abandoned alleys in Logan Circle and parked.
Grass sprouted from the cracks in the gravel and remnants of a broken bottle crunched under my boots as I pulled the tarp from my trunk.
Taking the extra few minutes to cover my SUV, I instinctively palmed the holstered Walther PDP at my side and checked my peripherals before starting for my destination.
One of the advantages of knowing downtown as well as I did was that there was a camera blind spot on nearly every corner and Nineah and I owned an accompanying lot for half of them.
The envelope I’d received less than three months ago safely tucked into the breast pocket of the custom jacket I’d only worn twice, I made my way through the DC neighborhood and walked toward a group of cabs.
I quickly hailed one, unable to release a breath the entire ride until I was dropped off in front of the multi-tenant office building that housed the law firm of Jamison and Cox.
Feeling more exposed than usual on the sidewalk, I forced in a breath and started inside.
Taking the elevator to the fifteenth floor, I didn’t have to coach myself or prepare a statement because I’d already decided not to speak. I stepped into a corridor of offices, found my lawyer’s, and walked in.
Luther Armand, an older gentleman with a compact stature and thinning hair glanced up and my immaturity took a sick satisfaction in the way his shoulders stiffened as he regarded me.
My own attorney greeted me, holding the door open as I took my seat and she joined me across the table from Luther.
Twenty minutes later, with only five to spare, the door opened once more and I held my breath like always.
I didn’t dare watch her. Nor the way her grandfatherly lawyer escorted her to the table with a hand on her back. But I could still smell her. Hear her uneven breathing. Her designer sneakers on the carpet.
I knew she was wearing blue. And that the outfit wasn’t new because I recognized the shade.
They sat. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Good. We have everyone here now. As per the prenuptial agreement, the assets have hereby been divided, with the house in Loudon County, the Ma Maison in port at the Chesapeake Bay, the IRA totaling $283, 602.22 as well as $95,501.98 in liquid assets being awarded to party B or Mr. Lawton. As for the remaining assets, the apartments in DC and Paris, all stocks, other investments, and liquid assets totaling $810,071.33 will remain in the possession of Party A or Ms. Lin-Lawton. The individual’s respective retirement contributions with FX Resources Group out of Washington, DC will remain in their individual possession.
If both parties are in agreement and require no further amendments, may we proceed? ”
It’d been less than a month since I’d last seen her and after today, my stalling would only buy me one more of these meetings before we officially ended our marriage.
She tapped her shoes together under the table—a nervous tic, probably wondering if she just closed her eyes and sat still as possible, she’d disappear. But this was the real world, and that wasn’t how shit worked. You didn’t get to just blow up someone’s life and look away from the blast zone.
Vanessa, whose frown was as severe and as blood red as the pantsuit she’d worn today, spoke. “Not quite.”
Luther cleared his throat and addressed her. “Two weeks ago, your client accepted the agreement. If this stalling is a last-ditch attempt at dragging the proceedings—”
“Two weeks ago, we weren’t aware that your client was in breach of her prenuptial clause and had been for some time.” Opening a thick black accordion folder, Vanessa removed a small stack of photographs I didn’t have to look at to know where they’d come from.
Nineah stiffened, not bothering to look at them. Adjusting his readers, Luther studied the evidence in front of him.
“Time-stamped and dated,” she said. “Your office can verify that with the PI firm of Erik Huffman. In the meantime, I’ll be in touch with you about what my client feels will be a fairer distribution of marital assets or you can expect to see us in civil court.”
If I were that kind of man, I could almost appreciate the ashen pallor that stole over Nineah’s carefully made-up face, but alas, today wasn’t about blindsiding her. It was about protecting her.
“Do you need a minute?” Luther asked her.
She ignored him. “You’re suing me?”
Vanessa shot me a warning look.
I ignored her.
“How many?” I asked Nineah.
“What?”
“How many times did you fuck him?”
The fact that he was still breathing meant the answer was zero, but I played my part.
Vanessa jumped in to interject. “Abraham—”
“Answer the question.”
Her posture straight, shoulders high, stare resolved, Nineah would never react with an audience, but I knew she was squeezing her fingers under the table.
For a moment, it seemed as though she might speak.
But then she reached for her purse and stood.
Turning to her lawyer, she bent close and whispered something I didn’t hear.
She nearly had the door halfway open when I called her on her shit. “Elle court encore.”
Hesitating, but only for a moment, she shut the door behind her.