Rachel frowned.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“You got here yesterday.”
“I know.”
“Want me to come?”
Every instinct said yes.
Then I thought about the empty house.
My deed.
My keys.
The reason I bought it in the first place.
“No.”
I said.
“I need to do this one myself.”
Rachel packed two muffins for the drive because my sister believes carbohydrates are a legitimate emergency service.
I got on I-71 before noon.
About an hour later, Emily called.
She was twenty-eight, old enough to understand divorce and still young enough to wish her parents would stop forcing reality into separate versions.
“Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Dad says you had people stop him from moving into a house.”
“My house.”
Silence.
“Your what?”
“I bought a house.”
“You bought a house?”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to.”
“Dad knew?”
“Apparently.”
“But you didn’t tell him?”
I almost laughed.
“Emily, one of the advantages of divorce is that I no longer have to notify your father when I purchase real estate.”
She did not laugh.
“He said you told him they could stay there.”
“I did not.”
“Then why would he think that?”
“I don’t know.”
That was only half true.
I understood why Mark might tell himself he had a claim.
What I did not understand was how he had found the house.
Or the access code.
“Mom.”
Emily said.
“I really don’t want this getting ugly.”
I tightened my hands on the steering wheel.
“Neither do I.”
“I just want everyone to calm down.”
“Emily, there are situations that are already wrong before anyone reacts to them.”
She went quiet.
“I’m not asking you to choose sides.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call you when I’m home.”
The moving truck was gone when I reached Worthington.
For one second, the house looked perfectly normal.
Then a man from next door walked across the lawn.
Early sixties.
Gray hair.
Reading glasses hanging from his shirt collar.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Tom Weaver.”
We shook hands.
“Quite a morning.”
“So I heard.”
He glanced toward the house.
“I figured you knew they were coming.”
My stomach tightened.
“Knew what?”
“That your former husband had been here.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Wednesday.”
Three days earlier.
“Was he alone?”
Tom hesitated.
“No.”
“With Vanessa?”
“No.”
“A locksmith.”
For a moment, traffic from the larger road behind us became the only sound I could hear.
I walked to the side entrance.
Entered my contractor code.
0-4-2-7.
Red light.
Again.
Red.
A third time.
Nothing.
Tom stood behind me.
“Problem?”
I looked at the keypad.
“He changed the lock.”
That changed everything.
A person who misunderstood permission might arrive with a suitcase.
A person planning occupancy changes a lock three days before the moving truck.
Tom handed me a garage remote the previous owner had accidentally left with him months earlier.
We tried it.
Nothing.
Garage access had been reset too.
“Well.”
Tom said.
“That’s rude.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I called a locksmith.
While I waited, I photographed the exterior.