“I’m not here for money.”
“That’s good. Because there isn’t any for you.”
I climbed the steps anyway. He blocked the doorway with his arm.
“Did you hear me? Get off this property before I call the police.”
“Call them,” I said. “I’d love to ask why you’re throwing her clothes in the trash before probate’s even started.”
His jaw tightened. For one second he glanced out at the neighborhood, checking for witnesses maybe.
That second was all I needed.
I ducked under his arm and walked into the hallway.
“Hey. HEY.”
I moved fast down the hall, past the kitchen where she’d poured me bitter tea every Sunday, past the chair where she had tucked a blanket around my shoulders without making it a kindness I had to thank her for.
The sewing room door was still ajar.
Arthur’s footsteps thundered behind me.