My mother’s face went from pale to a deep, ugly crimson. “This is a family matter!” she shrieked, her country club poise completely evaporating. “How dare you bring this to my home! Claire, you ungrateful little—”

“The deputies are here to escort you to the station, Evelyn,” Douglas said.

In front of fifty of her closest friends, neighbors, and peers, my mother was led down her own stone steps in handcuffs. She was screaming, her hair falling out of its neat bun. Mark was served with divorce papers right there next to the mimosa bar, his face completely hollowed out by fear.

It was the loudest, messiest event Cascade Hills had ever seen. And I didn’t shed a single tear.

That was six months ago.

I sold the split-level house and took my half of the assets. Combined with the restored funds from my father’s trust—which is now legally mine alone—I bought a small, historic cottage in Saugatuck, right near the water. It has a tiny garden, and the air smells like lake water and pine trees.

Yesterday, I was sitting on my new porch, drinking a cup of coffee. I looked down at my chest. The gold filigree pendant was resting against my collarbone. I had gotten it back from the police evidence locker last week.

I haven’t talked to my mother since that Sunday, and Mark’s lawyers are still begging for a settlement I have no intention of giving. My brother’s weird new girlfriend tried to call me to mediate, but I blocked her number. I don’t care anymore.

I took a sip of my coffee and looked out at the water. For the first time in 18 years, the air tasted completely clean.