My eggs. My fresh fruit. The little piece of brie I bought because I wanted to eat like a woman with no deadlines.
I held up a displaced bag of produce. “Where would you like me to put these?”
“The garage fridge should be fine,” Melissa said without looking up. “Brandon said you have one out there.”
Of course Brandon had given them a full inventory of my home. Probably down to the number of towels and the type of mattress in each room.
By noon, the house looked like a different place. Pool toys littered the deck. Wet towels draped over my antique chair like it was cheap patio furniture. The kitchen looked like a storm swept through it. Patricia sat at my dining table complaining about shower water pressure while Gary clicked through my television channels with visible disappointment.
“Eleanor,” Gary called, “we’re going to need the Wi-Fi password. And do you have any of those little drink umbrellas? The kids are making tropical smoothies.”
I smiled, because smiling is what you do when you’re building a case.
“The password is on the router,” I said. “Help yourselves.”