My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

I checked every closet and every cabinet in the house. By the time I got to my old bedroom, I was shaking so hard that I had to sit on the edge of the bed.

At least the bed was still mine with its narrow iron frame and worn nightstand. There was a shelf lined with the carved wooden gulls my father used to buy before Victoria made him allergic to anything unsophisticated.

One of the gulls was missing its beak because I had broken it myself when I was fifteen. My mother had laughed and said that now it had real character.

I put my hand over my mouth to keep from crying. This was what Victoria never understood because she thought value only existed where money had touched it recently.

She could not imagine defending a house for reasons that had nothing to do with prestige. She did not know what to do with memory except bulldoze it and call the result an upgrade.

When I finally stood up and opened the closet, the breath left my body. My mother’s cedar chest was gone from its spot.

I turned so fast that I nearly knocked over the nightstand. “Lydia, come here,” I called out.