Chapter 3

By the time the press event ended, the locks on Mom's old house had been changed.

Contractors were carrying furniture into a moving truck. One struck the edge of her wooden kitchen table against a doorframe, chipping the varnish she'd polished for twenty years.

"Who authorized this?" I demanded.

The site manager produced papers signed by Daniel. The signatures purporting to authorize the transfer were not mine.

I called my lawyer. She told me to photograph everything.

Serena arrived in expensive sunglasses and looked around as if the place had always been hers.

"The table doesn't fit my gallery concept," she said. "Get rid of it."

The workers dropped it from the truck. The wood split cleanly in two.

I stood frozen with Mom's old cardigan in my arms. The faint scent of laundry soap was still in the fabric.

Once I would have screamed until the police came. This time I photographed the broken table, the forged paperwork, and the contractors' order sheets.

I sent everything to my attorney.