By four o’clock, Brandon and Rosalind were unloading the last of the furniture into his new apartment, laughing over takeout. Then his phone buzzed with a message from his own bank. Then another. Then a call from the landlord, and a third from the leasing company. Rosalind kept reading her clipboard, certain it was nothing, until Brandon’s face went completely gray.

Two sheriff’s deputies were waiting in the hallway outside his door, holding a folder with his name on it. “Mr. Kessler?” one asked. “We have a court order regarding the property you removed from the marital home this morning.” Rosalind stepped forward to object, but the deputy raised a single page. At the top was a case number, and the petitioner’s name beneath it was mine.