Chapter 4 - THE LOCK ON MY OWN DOOR
Alexander drove me home.
The money sat between us in its white envelope.
Neither of us touched it.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I watched the familiar streets pass.
“For today?”
“For letting it get this far.”
There were many things I could have said.
How often I had waited beside a cold dinner.
How carefully I had shortened phone calls.
How it felt to watch my son apologize for loving me.
Instead, I said, “Tell me what you signed.”
“I don’t know.”
That frightened me more than Bianca’s insults.
When we reached my house, a silver lockbox hung from the porch railing.
A real estate sign lay flat beside the steps.
Alexander got out before the car stopped rolling.
“What the hell?”
I stood on the sidewalk looking at the brick house I had paid for one overtime shift at a time.
A young woman came around from the side yard.
“Oh.
Are you the occupants?”
“The owner,” I said.
Her smile disappeared.
She introduced herself as the listing agent, Paige Benton.
“I was told the property was vacant.”
Alexander pointed at my open bedroom window.
My yellow curtains moved in the breeze.
“Does that look vacant?”
Paige pulled out her phone.
“Mr. Ewald Mercer said his daughter was managing the sale under a power of attorney.”
“I never signed one.”
She looked from me to Alexander.
“Then I need to stop access immediately.”
Her voice was different now.
Less cheerful.
More careful.
She removed the lockbox and called her broker from the porch.
I tried my front door.
My key did not turn.
Alexander took it from me and tried again.
Someone had changed the lock on my own home.
For the first time that afternoon, my knees weakened.
He put a hand beneath my elbow.
“Mom, look at me.
We’re getting you inside.”
Paige turned away from her call.
“I’m so sorry.
They told the contractor you had moved.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
While I had been washing my yellow dress.
While I had been wondering whether my son would hug me when I arrived.
Alexander called a locksmith.
Then Paige opened the listing on her tablet.
Most of the pictures were ordinary.
My kitchen.
My living room.
The little room where Alexander used to sleep.
But one showed my bedroom closet standing open.
Inside, beneath my coats, sat a metal box.
I touched the screen.
“That picture was taken before Thursday.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my husband’s watch was still in that box.”
Alexander looked at me.
May you like
“And now?”
“Now it’s missing.”
