Chapter 3 - What the Blond Hair Meant"Desmond, open this door right now, or I'm calling the police," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, Wren's car seat handle cutting into my palm.
"There's no need for that," he said. "I'm not doing anything wrong. This is just a difficult transition period, and I think—"
"Who is inside the house?"
Another pause, longer this time. Then a woman's voice, muffled but audible, said something I couldn't quite make out, followed by Desmond's voice, sharper now, clearly directed away from the intercom: "Not now, Bianca."
Bianca. I filed the name away with the particular, clinical focus that eleven years of running technology companies had trained into me — the same instinct that had once let me sit through a hostile board meeting without my voice shaking, the same instinct currently keeping me upright on my own front steps three days after major surgery.
"I'm going to call a locksmith," I said, "and if you're not out of my house within the hour, I'm also calling my attorney."
"Your attorney," Desmond repeated, and I could hear the small, confident smile in his voice even through the tinny speaker. "Estelle, be reasonable. This is our home. Whatever you think you're going to do, you should remember that half of everything here is mine too."
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I looked down at Wren, sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware that her father was currently standing on the other side of a locked door with another woman, calmly explaining to her mother, three days postpartum, that half of everything belonged to him.
"Desmond," I said quietly, "nothing here has ever belonged to you. I think it's time you actually read the deed."
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