My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

An hour later we were sitting at the kitchen table with tea and legal pads while I made a list of everything missing, moved, repainted, or potentially sold. The exercise was both grounding and brutal. Porch rug. Shell bowl. Pot rack. quilt. reading chair. photo albums? I went room by room in my head while Evelyn noted which items were legally relevant, which were sentimental but probably unrecoverable, and which might be traceable if removed recently enough.

When I mentioned the possibility that Diana and my father had planned to sell the house, Evelyn’s pen stopped.

“Did Madeline say those exact words?”

“Dad was going to sell the place anyway.”

Evelyn nodded once. “Good. We’ll use that.”

“Good?”

“In legal terms, yes. Emotionally, I’m sorry.”

I laughed weakly. “You are the least soothing person I know.”

“Untrue. I am extremely soothing in environments where competent aggression is the preferred form of comfort.”

That got a real laugh out of me, brief but real.

Then the front door opened without knocking.

My body went rigid before I even saw who it was.