A man stepped outside carrying another bag and looked me over with disgust.

“You must be the con artist,” he said. “Bold of you to show your face.”

“I’m not here for money.”

“That’s good. Because there isn’t any for you.”

I climbed the steps, but he blocked the doorway with his arm.

“Did you hear me? Get off this property before I call the police.”

“Call them,” I said. “I’d love to ask why you’re throwing her clothes in the trash before probate’s even started.”

His jaw tightened. For a second, he glanced toward the neighborhood, perhaps checking for witnesses.

That was enough.

I ducked under his arm and entered the hallway.

“Hey. HEY.”

I hurried down the hall, past the kitchen where Marianne had poured me bitter tea every Sunday and the chair where she’d once tucked a blanket around my shoulders without turning it into a kindness I had to repay.