She stayed there forty minutes.
I sat in the hallway.
When she finally came out, she looked directly at me.
“You should start packing.”
I thought grief was speaking for her.
I was wrong.
She had already made a plan.
Twenty-four hours after Terrence was buried in the Washington family cemetery, I stood outside the estate in slow November rain while Eleanor dragged my suitcase down the front steps.
She had deliberately found the same suitcase I had brought with me when I moved into the house three years earlier.
The message was obvious.
You arrived with this.
You leave with this.
The zipper broke on the third step.
My clothes spilled across the wet lawn.
My nursing scrubs landed first.
Then sweaters.
Shoes.
Books.
Pieces of the life I had believed was permanent, scattered in the mud.
Eleanor stood beneath the porch roof.
“You got what you wanted.”
Her voice no longer carried any trace of polite society.
“You spent three years pretending to be part of this family.”
She stared at me.
“Now Terrence is gone.”
“You get nothing.”
Chloe stood nearby filming everything with her phone.
She was laughing.
Not nervously.
Not uncomfortably.
She was enjoying it.
“Goodbye to the Washington lifestyle,” she said.
