Outside, rain tapped steadily against the tall back windows of the Brentwood house just south of Nashville.
Inside, the grandfather clock ticked once in the hallway.
Trevor Hale — Megan’s ex-husband — froze completely on the staircase, one hand still on the banister.
Megan set her pen down on the table.
She smiled the calm, unhurried smile of someone who has been waiting for exactly this moment.
“Because this house was paid for with my money,” she said.
Diane went pale so quickly it looked as though someone had reached in and pulled every drop of color from her face.
Trevor did not move.
His younger sister Vanessa, who had been reaching toward the toast rack on the counter, lowered her hand as if she had touched something unexpectedly hot.
“That is not funny,” Diane said immediately, almost by reflex.
“I am not joking,” Megan replied.
The House That Was Built on a Convenient Story
