Chapter 4: He Comes Home to the Wrong Door
Brandon's key didn't work.
I watched from the window of Rosalind's — my — house as he tried it twice, then a third time, turning it hard like the lock was the problem.
I had changed it the night before.
He stepped back and looked up at the house.
Then he called me.
I answered.
"Lucia.
What is going on?
My key doesn't work."
"I know."
A pause.
"Did you change the locks?"
"I did."
"On my house?"
"On my house, Brandon." I kept my voice flat.
"Your mother left it to me.
Mr.
Pendelton has the paperwork if you'd like to review it."
The silence that followed was the longest he had ever given me.
"That's not possible," he said finally.
"She would have told me."
"She told me.
With a key and a letter and a lawyer who has been holding the documents for three years."
"Lucia—"
"My attorney's name is Sandra Reeves.
Her number is in the letter I left on the porch step.
Everything goes through her now."
I ended the call.
He rang the doorbell four times.
Then he knocked.
Then he called again and I didn't answer.
Then he sat on the porch step for eleven minutes — I counted — before he picked up the envelope, opened it, and read.
When he stood up, his face had changed.
He called again.
I answered again.
"You need to open this door," he said.
His voice had dropped into the register he used when he wanted me to understand he was serious.
"We are married.
You cannot lock me out of a property dispute without a court order."
"Sandra Reeves," I said.
"Her number is in the envelope."
"I don't want a lawyer.
I want my wife."
"You should have wanted your wife three days ago when she was calling you thirty times from the hospital."
Another silence.
Shorter this time.
"How long have you been planning this?"
"I haven't been planning anything.
Your mother planned it.
I just finally listened to her."
"My mother was not well, Lucia.
You know that.
Whatever Pendelton told you—"
"She was well enough to photograph four years of your bank statements." I let that land.
"She was well enough to have a DNA report commissioned.
She was well enough to write me a letter in her own handwriting that I will be keeping for the rest of my life."
The line went quiet for so long I thought he'd ended the call.
Then: "What DNA report?"
"Ask your lawyer, Brandon."
I hung up.
He stood on the porch for another few minutes.
I didn't watch.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
When I came back, his rental car was gone.
My phone showed two missed calls from a number I didn't recognize.
I let them go to voicemail.
The message was eleven seconds long.
A woman's voice.
Calm, almost rehearsed.
*"Mrs.
Whitmore.
My name is Diane Calloway.
I think we need to speak.
I believe we have a situation in common.
Please call me back."*
I sat down at the kitchen table with my tea going cold in front of me.
May you like
The woman from the photograph had a last name now.
And she had already found me.
