Marcus stopped pacing.
Patricia stared at me.
“What does that mean?”
I pulled another sheet from the back pocket of the folder.
It was the written inventory I had prepared after photographing the house, along with the information I had gathered about the missing property.
I had already made a formal report documenting what happened.
I had not spent the previous two days waiting for Patricia to develop a conscience.
I had spent them making sure that when she finally arrived to tell me why my belongings were hers, I would not have to rely on memory or emotion.
The color drained from her face.
“You reported us?”
“I reported what happened.”
“I’m your sister.”
“You knew that Tuesday.”
The words landed harder than shouting would have.
Marcus sat down on the bare floor.
Patricia remained standing.
“You would actually do this to me?”
I felt years of reflex pushing me toward her.
Comfort her.
Explain.
Soften the sentence.
Remind her that I loved her.
Instead I looked around the room she had emptied.
“Patricia, you came into my home with tools.”
Her eyes filled.
“We were desperate.”
“Then you could have asked.”
“You would have said no.”
That was the first completely honest thing she had said.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She seemed startled.
“After the last loan, I probably would have.”
“Exactly!”
She threw her hands up as if I had proven her point.
“We had no choice.”
“You had the choice to hear no.”
The room went silent.
Marcus stared at the floor.
Patricia’s expression changed again, because she finally understood the difference between need and permission.
At least, she understood that I understood it.
My phone rang.
Mom.
Patricia saw the name.
“Answer her.”
I did.
Mom spoke before I could say hello.
“Is Patricia there?”
“Yes.”
“Put me on speaker.”
I did.
For a moment none of us spoke.
Then Mom said, “Patricia, did you take Claire’s things?”
Patricia’s face tightened.
“Mom, you know we’re having problems.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
