Again in the elevator.
And one final time just outside the courtroom.
“Whatever they say, whatever they do, keep your expression neutral. Keep looking forward. Let me handle the rest.”
I had nodded every time.
But I didn’t fully understand why until I stood beneath the blazing Atlanta sun, watching Patricia Monroe clap her hands together as if she had just witnessed the ending of a wonderful performance.
Except the performance she was celebrating was the collapse of my marriage.
Eight years.
That was how long I had been married to Grant Monroe.
Eight years reduced to a judge’s signature inside a courtroom that smelled of old paper and industrial cleaner.
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