I drove so quickly that I barely remember the trip.
When I arrived at Mrs. Dalton’s house, Lily was curled on the couch beneath several towels. Her skin was pale, and her lips were turning blue.
I carried her to my car.
Then I crossed the yard and walked toward my mother’s house.
Evelyn opened the door before I knocked. She had always enjoyed controlling the beginning of a confrontation.
Natalie stood behind her with her arms crossed. Frank stared at the floor.
Lily’s muddy backpack had been thrown beside the porch like garbage.
The front lock had clearly been replaced.
My mother lifted her chin.
“Before you become dramatic, Claire, this was necessary.”
I did not yell.
I did not argue.
I looked at her, then at the new lock.
“Understood,” I said.
Then I turned away.
I took Lily to a hotel, ordered warm food, and waited until she finally slept.
Afterward, I made one phone call.
Three days later, a certified letter arrived at Ashmont Lane.
The envelope was thick and white, bearing the name of one of Portland’s most respected law firms.
My mother signed for it while wearing the same pearl earrings she had worn when she locked Lily outside.
Inside were eleven pages.
The first informed Evelyn Mercer, Natalie Mercer, and Frank Halloway that they had thirty days to leave the property.
My mother read the notice twice.
Then she laughed.
“Claire cannot evict us,” she announced. “She does not own this house.”
That was her first mistake.
I did own it.
Not symbolically.
Not because I had childhood memories there.
Legally.
My father, Thomas Mercer, had purchased the house before marrying Evelyn. Before he died, he transferred it into a trust.
