William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Karen stopped clicking her pen, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the printout of our joint bank ledger.
“A twelve thousand dollar deposit for a local school in Hartford?” she asked.
“That is what she told me,” I said, though the memory of the carbon receipt I had found in my glove box felt cold and heavy in my chest.
“I can file the petition, but we need a smoking gun to convince a judge,” she said, tapping her pen against her chin.
“How much does it cost to file the petition?” I asked.
“My retainer is eight thousand dollars,” Karen said, her pen poised over a fresh sheet of yellow lined paper.
The number sat between us on the sticky laminate table like a physical block of stone.
“Eight thousand,” I repeated, my voice barely carrying over the low rumble of the kitchen dishwashers. “I do not have that in our joint checking. Marsha monitors every transaction on her phone.”
“It must be paid up front,” Karen said. “The filing fees, the process server, my hourly rate. It adds up quickly.”
