Max sat half up on the sofa, blinking in the half light. “I haven’t got that kind of money.” He was trying to play the victim, but it came off as whiny.

“There’s no mortgage on the restaurant building,” Annie went on; suddenly she had all the answers. She wondered idly if this was what an epiphany felt like. “You won’t have any trouble taking one out on it. And if that doesn’t cover the whole cost, you can ask your parents.”

“They haven’t . . .”

“This is me, remember, Max, I know they’ve got it, just sitting in a bank account, waiting for you.”

“That’s my inheritance!”

“As long as it’s yours, it doesn’t really matter when you get it, does it?”

“They’ll never agree.”

“Then it’s up to you to persuade them. You’re good at that. I’ll make an appointment to see my solicitor and get it all drawn up. I’m not asking for anything that isn’t already mine. My inheritance bought that place, and it’s only right that I get at least half of it back.”

Max, realizing she meant business, was gathering up his jacket and stuffing the photograph albums back into the bags.

“You can leave those for now,” said Annie. “I’ll sort through them and make copies.”

“I’m sure,” said Max. “Maybe you’d like to take the shirt off my back while you’re at it, since you seem determined to take me to the cleaners and destroy everything I’ve worked for.”

“Everything we’ve worked for, Max. And I’m not asking for anything that doesn’t already belong to me.”

Max wasn’t listening. He was clutching the bags to his chest as though trying to cover his modesty, while managing to look shocked and hurt as he backed away from her. Max yanked open the door to the flat.

“And don’t forget the account!” Annie shouted. “I want my sodding money!”

As soon as Max realized his victim act wasn’t going to wash with Annie, his demeanor changed.

“I’ll see myself out,” he said. And then leaning in close to her face, he growled, “You’re a bitch,” before slamming the door behind him.