I left the clinic after losing my baby, and that same night I boarded a flight without going home.

The deposition was held remotely, on a Tuesday morning in early November.

I sat at a table in a Vancouver law office that Daniel Holt's colleague had arranged.

A court reporter was on screen.

Christopher's attorney, a man named Warren Fitch, appeared in a separate window.

Daniel was beside me in person, having flown up the night before.

Christopher was not on the call.

That had been his choice.

Warren Fitch was polished and deliberate.

He spent the first forty minutes asking about the original marriage agreement, my financial situation before the marriage, Nora's medical history, and the specific terms under which I had agreed to the arrangement.

I answered everything.

I did not apologize for any of it.

"Mrs.

Reynolds," Fitch said, "would you characterize your marriage as one entered into primarily for financial benefit?"

"I would characterize it as one entered into because my sister was dying and I had no other options," I said.

"Christopher was aware of that when he proposed it."

"And you agreed to his terms."

"I agreed to a marriage of convenience in exchange for medical coverage for my sister.

He agreed to provide that coverage.

He then deliberately withdrew it without telling me, while I was pregnant, while my sister was in critical condition."

"That's your characterization—"

"It's also in eighteen months of his own emails," I said.

"Which his former assistant provided under oath."

Fitch moved on.

He spent another thirty minutes on the day I had come to the Reynolds Enterprises offices.

He asked whether I had made a scene.

He asked whether I had grabbed Gwen Lawson's arm.

He asked whether I had raised my voice.

"I was pregnant," I said.

"My sister was in critical condition and the hospital needed authorization for emergency care.

I went to the office because no one was answering my calls.

I asked Gwen to pass a message to my husband.

She declined."

"You grabbed her arm."

"I touched her sleeve.

Yes."

"And you consider that appropriate behavior?"

Daniel put his hand briefly on the table.

I understood the signal.

"I consider it the behavior of a woman who was trying to prevent her sister from dying," I said.

"You can characterize it however you like."

Fitch paused.

Then he moved to the clinic.

"Mrs.

Reynolds, on the night your sister passed, you made a medical decision.

Can you describe that decision?"

"No," I said.

Fitch looked up from his notes.

"I'm sorry?"

"That decision is private, it is legal, and it has no bearing on the medical negligence complaint or the civil claim.

I won't be discussing it."

"It may be relevant to—"

"It isn't," Daniel said quietly.

"Move on, Warren."

A pause.

Fitch moved on.

The deposition lasted three hours and forty minutes.

When it ended and the screens went dark, Daniel sat back in his chair and looked at me.

"You did well," he said.

"Did I give him anything?"

"Nothing he didn't already have.

And nothing that helps him." He paused.

"He was fishing.

He wanted you to apologize for going to the office.

He wanted you to express regret about the clinic.

He wanted you to say something that made you sound unstable or calculating." He folded his hands.

"You didn't give him any of it."

I looked at the blank screen.

"When does it go to the judge?" I asked.

"The motion to exclude Nora's affidavit will be heard in three weeks.

I expect it to fail.

After that, Christopher's attorney will have thirty days to respond to the full civil filing." Daniel paused.

"My read is that he settles before that deadline."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we go to a hearing.

And the judge sees everything.

The emails.

The affidavit.

The video.

Gwen's statement.

The messages he sent you.

The letter he filed." Daniel looked at me steadily.

"Warren Fitch is a good attorney.

But he has a bad case.

And he knows it."

I nodded.

We flew back — Daniel to Atlanta, me to Priya's apartment.

She was waiting with dinner on the table when I came through the door, and she didn't ask how it went until I had eaten half of it.

"He tried to make me feel ashamed," I said.

"Did it work?"

"No."

She nodded and refilled my glass.

"Nora would have been furious at that deposition," I said.

Priya smiled.

It was the first real smile I had seen from her in weeks.

"She would have been furious and then she would have made you describe every single exchange in detail and then she would have said *good* after every one."

I laughed.

It surprised me.

It came out small and unpracticed, like something that had been stored somewhere and forgotten.

"Good," Priya said softly.

In Nora's voice, almost.

I looked at her.

"She told me once," Priya said, "that the thing she was most proud of was that you never became hard.

After everything.

After your parents.

After the money.

After Christopher.

She said you stayed soft in the right places." She paused.

"She said that was the hardest thing to do and you did it without even trying."

I looked down at the table.

"I tried," I said quietly.

"I just didn't want her to know how hard."

Priya reached across the table and put her hand over mine.

We sat like that for a while, in the warm kitchen, while the night came in around the windows.

Three weeks later, the motion to exclude Nora's affidavit was denied.

The judge's written ruling included one sentence that Daniel read to me over the phone: *The court finds no credible basis for questioning the capacity of the affiant, whose testimony is detailed, consistent, and corroborated by independent documentary evidence.*

Christopher's attorney requested a two-week extension to respond to the civil filing.

The judge granted one week.