Her voice rose.
“You keep saying that like it’s the only thing that matters.”
“Tonight it is.”
Marcus muttered something under his breath.
I turned to him.
“Say it again.”
“I said some of it isn’t there anymore.”
Patricia spun toward him.
“Marcus.”
He looked instantly annoyed with himself.
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
“What isn’t there anymore?”
Neither answered.
I reached for the folder.
“The television?”
Silence.
“The refrigerator?”
Patricia looked away.
“My grandmother’s table?”
“We didn’t sell that,” Marcus said quickly.
Patricia’s eyes closed for half a second.
That was answer enough.
“So you sold something.”
“A few things,” Patricia snapped.
“Because we had bills.
Do you want us thrown onto the street over a television?”
Her anger came so naturally that for one dizzy moment I understood how she had convinced herself she was the injured person.
I had not even mentioned punishment.
I had asked for my belongings.
She had already jumped to the consequence she feared.
“Which things did you sell?”
“Claire—”
“Which things?”
Marcus rubbed both hands over his face.
“TV.
Blender.
Some kitchen stuff.
One lamp.”
My throat tightened at the word lamp, absurdly.
Not because the lamp mattered most, but because the casualness did.
A lamp I had bought after saving for months when I first moved into the house had become “some stuff” in somebody else’s emergency.
“And the money?”
Patricia lifted her chin.
“Paid bills.”
“Whose?”
“Ours.
Obviously.”
I looked at the signed note inside the folder.
“So you entered my home while I was working, removed my property, sold part of it, and used the money for yourselves.”
“Stop making it sound criminal.”
“I’m describing it.”
Her face changed.
The anger stayed, but underneath it was fear now.
“You didn’t call anyone, did you?”
I let the silence answer first.
Then I said, “I didn’t call you.”
