Mom stayed in the doorway.
Emily stayed behind her.
Neither came toward me.
Dad tossed my purse onto the porch. “Come back when you’re ready to sell.”
Then he slammed the door.
Rain tapped against the porch and soaked through my clothes while I sat on the wet concrete with one hand pressed against my neck. My shoulder throbbed. My fingers were shaking badly enough that I almost missed the tiny green light blinking on my purse strap.
My work-issued personal safety recorder was still running.
Six months earlier, after an attempted mugging outside my office, my company’s security department had issued discreet recording devices to senior staff. I had gotten used to wearing mine until I barely remembered it was there.
Dad apparently hadn’t remembered it at all.
The recorder had captured the argument. His demand that I sell the apartment. The reason he wanted the money. What Mom said. What I said.
