for too long.
And I need you to hear it from me before I leave.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Mrs.
Whitaker was no longer smiling.
“What else?”
She folded her hands.
“There’s a blue folder inside the envelope.”
I found it.
The folder was thin.
On the front was the name of a local law firm.
Henderson, Cole & Briggs.
I opened it.
The first page looked like a property document.
I scanned the heading.
Then froze.
“Is this your house?”
“No.”
I looked closer.
The address was familiar.
Too familiar.
417 Marlow Street.
My address.
The small two-bedroom house where Willa and I had lived for almost eleven years.
The house I rented.
The house whose landlord increased the rent almost every year.
The house where the porch leaned slightly left and the laundry-room window never locked properly.
I stared at Mrs.
Whitaker.
“What is this?”
“A deed.”
“
