I stared at the open closet behind me. His suits lay folded in black garment bags. His shoes sat in a neat row like soldiers waiting for orders. On the bed, his passport, watch box, golf trophies, cufflinks, and framed honeymoon photos had all been sorted into careful piles.
“My face is handled,” I said.
“Good. I’m bringing Mother home at noon. She has already told the movers to come tonight.”
Of course she had.
Evelyn did not simply move into homes. She occupied them. She had been measuring my rooms with her eyes for months — telling Daniel which wall should hold her piano, which garden bed should be replaced with roses, and which “unnecessary little office” of mine could become her sewing room.
My office. The room where I managed the family trust that owned this house, the lake property, and three rental buildings Daniel loved to mention at parties as “our investments.” He never read the trust documents. Arrogant men rarely read what they already assume belongs to them.
“You are one bad mood away from having nothing.”
— Daniel, before he hung up
I almost laughed. But laughter felt too expensive for a morning like that.
After he hung up, I made four phone calls.
