The doors opened before the SUV had fully settled.
Grant jumped out first, still wearing his gray courthouse suit.
His expression was pure confusion.
“What the hell is going on?”
He looked from the furniture to the boxes.
Then toward the locksmith installing the final new lock.
Patricia climbed out behind him.
She moved more slowly.
Her eyes traveled across the lawn.
Her antique furniture.
Her belongings.
Her boxes.
For the first time in eight years, Patricia looked genuinely old.
“Why is everything outside?”
Her usual commanding voice had disappeared.
The sheriff’s deputy stepped forward.
“Are you Grant Monroe?”
“Yes. This is my mother’s house. What are you people doing?”
“Sir, I need you to remain calm. There is a valid court order regarding this property. The removal of these belongings and the change of locks have been conducted lawfully. Everything has been inventoried and protected.”
Patricia slowly turned.
