I just stood there with my mug in my hand, feeling a calmness settle over me that wasn’t peace so much as readiness.
Because I’d known they were coming.
Two days earlier, Ashley had shown up on my porch with a folder of fake documents and the smile she used when she wanted something that wasn’t hers. She’d leaned in as if we were conspirators and said, “You have until Friday to pack your things. It’s better if you cooperate.”
Cooperate. In the house my grandparents had left me.
The house that, as far as my family believed, was finally close enough to steal.
On Tuesday morning, the kettle clicked off. The kitchen was warm, sunlight laying a soft rectangle across the hardwood floor, and for a moment the whole place looked like the life I’d been trying to build. Quiet. Stable. Mine.
Then the front doorbell rang.
