Part 2

Her expression hardened.

“Don’t start, Claire. The kids have been through enough.”

Behind her, my seven-year-old nephew dragged a toy chest across the floor, leaving a long gray mark on the hardwood.

I felt my stomach tighten.

“Take everything outside.”

Megan folded her arms.

“I’m not dragging three children back onto the street just because you suddenly think you’re better than everyone.”

I took out my phone.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Who are you calling?”

“The police.”

She laughed.

Then I made the call.

Twenty minutes later, two officers stood in my living room while Megan screamed that this was a “family misunderstanding.”

I showed them my deed, identification, closing documents, and security footage showing Megan entering with a key.

That key caught everyone’s attention.

Because I had never given her one.

When I asked where she got it, Megan suddenly stopped shouting.

One officer looked at her.

“Megan, who gave you the key?”

She stared at me for several seconds.

Then she said quietly:

“Ask Dad.”

My blood went cold.

Because my father had been inside my house alone only once.

Three days earlier.

And suddenly, I remembered exactly what he’d been doing near my kitchen counter.

The police didn’t arrest Megan that night.

Because she had only arrived hours earlier, had no lease, and couldn’t prove she had any legal right to occupy the property, the officers told her clearly that I wanted her gone and that she needed to remove herself and her belongings.

Megan called our mother.

That made everything worse.

Mom arrived fifteen minutes later in slippers and a winter coat thrown over her pajamas. Dad came behind her looking strangely calm.