Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah Page B

done her best to “repay” Meghann. That repayment seemed to be an endless stream of casseroles and a constant harangue about the evils of too much hard work.
    “You're right, Ana. I think I'll have a drink and unwind.”
    “Drink isn't what I'm thinking,” Ana muttered, bending down to plug in the vacuum.
    “Bye, Ana.”
    Meghann was almost to the elevator when her cell phone rang. She rifled through her black Kate Spade bag and pulled out the phone. “Meghann Dontess,” she said.
    “Meghann?” The voice was high-pitched and panicky. “It's May Monroe.”
    Meghann was instantly alert. A divorce could go bad faster than an open cut in the tropics. “What's going on?”
    “It's Dale. He came by tonight.”
    Meghann made a mental note to get a TRO first thing tomorrow. “Uh-huh. What happened?”
    “He said something about the papers he got today. He was crazy. What did you send him?”
    “We talked about this, May. On the phone, last week, remember? I notified Dale's lawyer and the court that we'd be contesting the fraudulent transfer of his business and demanding an accounting of the Cayman Island accounts. I also told his attorney that we were aware of the affair with the child's piano instructor and that such behavior might threaten his suitability as a parent.”
    “We never discussed that. You threatened to take away his children?”
    “Believe me, May, the temper tantrum is about money. It always is. The kids are a shill game with guys like your husband. Pretend to want custody and you'll get more money. It's a common tactic.”
    “You think you know my husband better than I do.”
    Meghann had heard this sentence more times than she could count. It always amazed her. Women who were blindsided by their husband's affairs, lies, and financial gymnastics continually believed that they “knew” their men. Yet another reason not to get married. It wasn't masturbation that made you go blind; it was love. “I don't have to know him,” Meghann answered, using the canned speech she'd perfected long ago. “Protecting you is my job. If I upset your”—
no good, lying
—“husband in the process, that's an unfortunate necessity. He'll calm down. They always do.”
    “You don't know Dale,” she said again.
    Meghann's senses pounced on some nuance. Something wasn't right. “Are you scared of him, May?” This was a whole new wrinkle.
    “Scared?” May tried to sound surprised by the question, but Meghann knew.
Damn.
She was always surprised by spousal abuse; it was never the families you expected.
    “Does he hit you, May?”
    “Sometimes when he's drinking, I can say just the wrong thing.”
    Oh, yeah. It's May's fault.
It was terrifying how often women believed that. “Are you okay now?”
    “He didn't hit me. And he never hits the children.”
    Meghann didn't say what came to mind. Instead, she said, “That's good.” If she'd been with May, she would have been able to look in her client's eyes and take a measure of the woman's fragility. If it seemed possible, she would have given her statistics—horror stories designed to drive home the ugly truth. Often, if a man would hit his wife, he'd get around to hitting his children. Bullies were bullies; their defining characteristic was the need to exert power over the powerless. Who was more powerless than a child?
    But none of that could be done over the phone. Sometimes a client sounded strong and in control while they were falling apart. Meghann had visited too many of her clients in psych wards and hospitals. She'd grown careful over the years.
    “We need to make sure he understands that I'm not going to take his children from him. Otherwise he'll go crazy,” May said. There was the barest crack in her voice.
    “Let me ask you this, May. Say it's three months from now. You're divorced, and Dale has lost half of everything he owns. He's living with Dance Hall Barbie and they come home drunk one night. Barbie's driving because she only had three