“You can’t just—”
“Get out of my house. You and Rick. Tonight.”
Rick took one look at Amy’s father, a retired oil field foreman who was six foot three and still built like a refrigerator, and went to pack.
Tara turned to Joanne.
“Stop recording me!”
Joanne didn’t stop.
“The sheriff’s deputy is on his way,” she said. “I texted him ten minutes ago. Leaving a sixteen-year-old in an unheated camper at nineteen degrees has a name in Texas, Tara. It’s called child endangerment.”
The deputy arrived at 8:15.
He listened to two minutes of Kaylee’s recordings, looked at the camper in the backyard, and asked Tara to step outside.
The program in Utah got a call from my lawyer the next morning. So did Tara’s divorce attorney.
She didn’t get half the house.
She didn’t get a dime of Amy’s money.
