a nervous smile. Not a guilty one.
A victorious one.
“Claire,” she called over the rain, “please don’t make a scene.”
I stepped out of the car with the folder under my arm.
“Move away from my door.”
Nathan came down one step.
“We’re not doing this in the street.”
“You hired someone to break into my house. We’re already doing this in the street.”
The locksmith looked from me to Vivian.
“Ma’am?” he said slowly.
Vivian lifted her chin. “My fiancé lives here.”
The word fiancé sliced the air between us.
I almost corrected her out of habit. My fiancé. My ring. My wedding. My ruined future.
Instead I looked at the locksmith.
“I am the legal owner of this property. I did not authorize a lock change.”
Nathan laughed under his breath.
“Claire, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Show him the deed,” Vivian said, turning to Nathan.
Nathan’s jaw tightened.
“It’s complicated.”
That was when the locksmith stopped drilling.
His eyes had shifted toward the narrow glass panel beside the front door.
“There’s someone inside,” he said.
Vivian frowned. “What?”
The deadbolt clicked.
The door opened inward.
Marjorie Holloway stood in the doorway wearing a navy suit, pearl earrings, and a face so calm it made everyone else look guilty.
For a second, no one spoke.
“Mrs. Holloway?” Nathan said.
His voice cracked on her name.
She looked at him as if he were a stain on a clean tablecloth.
“Mr. Price.”
Vivian’s smile had vanished.
“Why are you in our house?”
Mrs. Holloway turned her gaze to Vivian. It was not cruel, but it did not bend.
“Your house?”
Nathan stepped forward quickly. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Claire and I purchased this property together.”
“No,” Mrs. Holloway said. “Claire purchased this property.”
Rain struck the porch roof in a hard, steady rhythm.
I stood at the bottom of the steps, unable to understand why the seller of my house was inside it.
Mrs. Holloway lifted the folder in her hand. It was my spare closing packet, the one I had left on the kitchen counter because I could not bear to look at it after Nathan walked out.
“I came by because Claire was not answering my calls,” she said. “I still had the temporary access code for the contractor, and I suspected someone might try something foolish. I see I was not wrong.”
Vivian wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself.
“Nathan told me his name was on everything.”
Mrs. Holloway’s eyes moved to him.
“Did he?”
Nathan’s mouth flattened.
“This is private.”
“Changing locks on a house you do not own is not private,” Mrs. Holloway replied.
The locksmith stood and backed away from the door.
I climbed the steps slowly, each one sounding louder than it should have.
“Why were you calling me?” I asked Mrs. Holloway.
Her expression softened when she looked at me.
“Because mail arrived here yesterday. It was addressed to you, but the phone number on the account belonged to him.”
She pointed to Nathan.
The porch seemed to tilt.
“What kind of mail?”
Mrs. Holloway handed me a sealed envelope. The return address belonged to a bank I did not use.
“I did not open it,” she said. “But my late husband worked in finance for thirty years. I know what
