At 2:30, a moving company arrived.
Naomi had arranged it.
Everything belonging to Eleanor and Audrey went into labeled boxes under police supervision.
Clothing.
Shoes.
Cosmetics.
Documents.
No furniture.
No family photos.
No jewelry unless proven theirs.
My mother’s portrait from the staircase landing stayed right where it was until I walked over, lifted it off the hook, and set it face down on the floor.
The mark it left on the wall was pale and rectangular.
Like the house itself had been wearing a bandage.
By evening, Sophia and Leo were both stable.
I returned to the hospital with a clean blanket from home.
Sophia touched it and started crying.
“It smells like our laundry.”
I sat beside her.
“I changed the locks.”
She nodded.
“They’re gone?”
“Yes.”
“Your mom will hate me.”
I looked at her.
“My mother hated anyone she could not own.”
Sophia looked down at her hands.
