“Oh,” she said brightly. “Eleanor. Brandon said you’d moved upstairs already. Great. The master suite gets the best morning light.”
Behind her, Patricia swept past me without introduction, dragging a suitcase toward my bedroom as if she’d stayed there before.
“Mom has arthritis,” Melissa continued, nodding toward Patricia like it was a medical badge. “She really needs the ground-floor room.”
I watched them cross my marble floor in sandy shoes.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” I said mildly. “Help yourselves.”
“Oh, we brought supplies,” Melissa chirped, already opening my pantry. She began rearranging my shelves like she was reorganizing a store display. “Mom’s on a special diet. The kids are picky eaters. We’ll need you to clear out some refrigerator space.”
She started piling my groceries into a cardboard box.
My eggs. My fresh fruit. The little piece of brie I bought because I wanted to eat like a woman with no deadlines.
I held up a displaced bag of produce. “Where would you like me to put these?”
“The garage fridge should be fine,” Melissa said without looking up. “Brandon said you have one out there.”
Of course Brandon had given them a full inventory of my home. Probably down to the number of towels and the type of mattress in each room.
By noon, the house looked like a different place. Pool toys littered the deck. Wet towels draped over my antique chair like it was cheap patio furniture. The kitchen looked like a storm swept through it. Patricia sat at my dining table complaining about shower water pressure while Gary clicked through my television channels with visible disappointment.
“Eleanor,” Gary called, “we’re going to need the Wi-Fi password. And do you have any of those little drink umbrellas? The kids are making tropical smoothies.”
I smiled, because smiling is what you do when you’re building a case.
“The password is on the router,” I said. “Help yourselves.”
Then I excused myself with the calm of a woman going to take a nap, and walked into the garage where the air smelled like salt and new lumber.
I didn’t nap.
I called my attorney first.
Sarah Chen picked up on the second ring. “Eleanor Sterling,” she said, sounding amused. “Tell me you’re calling to celebrate retirement and not to ruin someone’s day.”
“I’m calling to confirm legal ownership structure,” I replied.
Her tone sharpened instantly. “What happened?”