I stepped in front of Nathan and told them plainly that no one was assigning any rooms tonight, because the deed carried my name alone and Nathan had signed a notarized postnuptial agreement. Harold’s face drained of color. Diane’s fingers slipped off the curtains. For the first time since walking in, the man who inspected my home like a landlord had nothing to say.

But before I could finish, the doorbell rang. My attorney stepped inside beside a uniformed police officer, holding a thick folder against her chest. She looked at Harold, then at me, and said the reason she had driven over could not wait until morning. Five people had already registered this address as their own, and somewhere inside that folder was a loan document carrying a signature I had never once written.