Chapter 3: The Parking Lot
I did not confront Gabriel. My father was very clear: do not warn him. So while Gabriel ate his lunch, laughing in my car about his ordinary wife riding the bus, my father's people and my attorney moved with the quiet efficiency of a well-run operation.
By the time Gabriel walked out of the restaurant, full and pleased with himself, there was a woman standing beside my SUV. Professional, calm, holding a folder.
"Mr. Gabriel? This vehicle is registered solely to Caroline Remington. She's revoking your permission to operate it, effective now. I'll need the keys. Your personal belongings can be collected from the curb."
I'm told his face did something remarkable. I'm told he laughed, at first, and then tried to argue, and then tried to call me, and I did not answer, because my attorney had advised me not to, and because I was home by then — my real home, not the apartment, but my father's house, where Theodore was asleep in a bassinet and I was, for the first time in five days, being taken care of instead of dismissed.
