For the first time that day, I almost laughed.
“Thank you,” I said.
She touched my arm gently. “Change the locks tonight.”
“I will.”
“And check your documents.”
That made me pause.
She glanced toward my house. “People who feel entitled do not usually stop at furniture.”
After she left, I stood alone in the doorway, casserole in one hand, keys in the other.
The house was a wreck.
My rugs were crooked. My bookshelves had been rearranged. Someone had taken down the painting over the fireplace and replaced it with a family photo of Derek’s parents at the beach. My kitchen smelled like fried onions and someone else’s coffee. In the guest bedroom, my clothes sat twisted inside black garbage bags, hangers snapped, silk blouses wrinkled into knots.
I moved slowly from room to room, touching things as though confirming they were real.
Then I reached my office.
The door was ajar.
I always closed my office door.
Inside, drawers hung open. Files had been shifted. My desk lamp was on. The locked cabinet beneath the window had scratch marks near the keyhole.
My breath caught.
That cabinet held old tax returns, property documents, my passport, savings records, and personal papers. Things no one had any reason to touch.
I knelt and opened it with my key.
