By noon, I was at the clinic.
By two, I was at my lawyer’s office.
By four, a moving company was parked outside my house.
Not to take my things.
To remove theirs.
My lawyer, Adrian Vale, stood in the foyer in a charcoal suit, holding a clipboard and looking exactly like the kind of man my mother would hate on sight.
“Everything belonging to Mrs. Lane and Miss Violet has been cataloged,” he said. “Personal clothing, cosmetics, papers, and furniture purchased by them will be placed in storage. Items belonging to you remain.”
“What about the locks?”
“Already scheduled.”
“And the cameras?”
“Downloaded and backed up.”
I looked around the living room.
My mother’s floral throw pillows. Violet’s designer shopping bags. The framed photos they had placed over Dad’s bookshelves, slowly erasing him from the house he built.
For the first time, I did not feel guilty.
I felt awake.
At six fifteen, Adrian stood by the front window and said, “They’re here.”
My mother’s car pulled into the driveway.
Violet got out first, carrying an iced coffee and laughing at something on her phone.
Then she saw the boxes.
Her smile vanished.
My mother stormed up the steps and tried the front door.
It did not open.
She pounded once.
Then again.
“Nora!” she screamed. “Open this door!”
Adrian nodded to me.
I opened it.
My mother’s face was still arranged for war, but it faltered when she saw him standing behind me.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
Adrian stepped forward.
“Adrian Vale. Ms. Whitaker’s attorney.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “Attorney?”
My mother looked past him into the house.
The living room was almost bare.
Her mouth fell open.
“What did you do?”
I touched the bandage on my cheek.
“What you told me to do,” I said. “I got out.”
