Inside were some cash and a folder of documents. I flipped through them, and my jaw dropped. Mark wasn’t just “helping” his mom. He had taken out personal loans in his name to pay for the renovations on her house. The amounts were staggering. And then I found it: a bill of sale for a luxury garage unit. Registered to Eleanor. The date was last month. The price was exactly the amount we had saved for a new car—money Mark told me he’d “lost in a bad crypto investment.”
“So that’s it,” I whispered. “The ‘crypto’ was a garage for Mom.”
I took photos of everything. Then I tucked the folder into one of the bags in the hallway. Let him have it. It was his problem now.
I went back inside, swept up the porcelain, and mopped the floor until the water in the bucket came up black. I looked out the window again. Mark’s gray Ford pulled into the lot, nearly clipping a trash can. He parked like a maniac, half-mounting the curb. Eleanor was already hobbling toward the car, suddenly remembering her “injury.” Mark jumped out, hugged her, and looked up at our windows with fury. His mother nodded vigorously, acting out the “assault.”
I stepped away from the window. My heart was pounding, but my hands were steady. I pulled a chair into the entryway, sat down, and set my tablet on the hall table to record. Jasper, my large gray Maine Coon, hopped onto my lap. He felt the tension and let out a low purr.
“Stay quiet, Jasper,” I whispered. “The show’s about to start.”
I heard the heavy thud of the building’s front door. I had disconnected the intercom, but Mark had his own key to the lobby. Footsteps pounded on the stairs. They didn’t wait for the elevator; they were too hungry for a confrontation. Third floor. The footsteps stopped. Silence. They had seen the bags.
“What the hell is this?” Mark’s voice was muffled by the heavy door.
“It’s your stuff! It’s your things, honey!” Eleanor wailed. “Look! In trash bags! She threw you out like garbage!”
“Sarah!” A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Open up! Have you lost your mind?”
