Morning arrived with sunlight that did not know it was walking into a trial.
I was in the kitchen making coffee when Harrison came down. He had changed into a gray T-shirt and jeans. His face looked slept-in and angry in equal measure. Behind him, Sloan appeared in a satin robe the color of a bruise, dark hair piled up, eyes already bright with the particular fuel of grievance. She did not sit. She stood in the doorway of my kitchen as if she were the one who had lived there for thirty-one years.
"You owe me an apology," Harrison said.
I poured coffee into my mug — the blue one, chipped at the rim, the one Walter used to say looked like me on Mondays — and waited.
"And twenty-five hundred dollars," he continued. "For the bag. It was a gift. It was real Gucci. You had no right."
Sloan's mouth curved. She crossed her arms under her chest and watched me the way a person watches a match they have already bet on.
I set the mug down. The sound it made on the counter was small and final.