She didn’t call Kevin. She dialed a number she had memorized five years ago.
“Hello, Mr. Henderson,” she said when the voice answered. Her tone was steady, devoid of the tremors of age. “It has happened. Exactly as Arthur predicted. Kevin has changed the locks… Yes. I am on the porch. Please bring the file. And bring the locksmith. And perhaps… the sheriff.”
She hung up. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and waited. She wasn’t a victim shivering in the cold; she was a general waiting for her artillery.
Inside the warm, well-lit living room, the atmosphere was one of triumphant celebration.
Kevin sprawled on his father’s favorite leather recliner, a glass of expensive scotch in his hand. Across from him, his wife, Jessica, was already flipping through paint swatches, holding them up against the walls.
“I hate this wallpaper,” Jessica said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like old people. We need to gut this whole floor. Open concept.”
Kevin laughed, a sound that lacked any warmth. “Do whatever you want, babe. It’s ours now. Finally.”
“Are you sure she won’t come back?” Jessica asked, pausing. “What if she has a key?”
“I changed the locks this morning,” Kevin bragged, swirling his drink. “Let her try. She’ll see the note and go crying to her sister in Jersey. I’m done carrying her. Dad is gone, and the law is the law. I’m the only son. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right? I’m in the house. She’s out.”
He took a long sip. “I deserve this house. I put up with his lectures for thirty years. This is my payment.”
