By Laura McHale Holland
She crouched in the closet, slashed her machete through another woman’s wardrobe, and clenched her teeth at the laughter bubbling up from a foyer that used to be hers. He’d filed for divorce one month into her three-year term, a sentence she’d earned for embezzling to pay his gambling debts. Since then, he’d changed his phone number, his hair style, his bank, his job, his wife—but he hadn’t changed the lock on the front door. The fool.