He laughed. “See you never.”

The line went d:ead.

The nurse stepped closer. “Mr. Whitaker, are you okay?”

I looked at the IV taped to my hand, then at the phone.

“Yes,” I said. “Call my attorney.”

By morning, Clara had already posted wedding photos online: her in a silk robe, Victor kissing her forehead, a diamond ring flashing beneath the lights like a threat.

The caption read, “New life. New home. No toxic people.”

I stared at it from my hospital bed while Detective Morales sat beside me flipping through copies of the documents Clara filed.

“These signatures are terrible,” he said.