Another pause.
Finally, the answer came.
“I didn’t give him the code directly.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone else did.”
I looked back at the camera.
The officer had opened the moving truck.
Inside were dozens of boxes.
Furniture.
Clothes.
Kitchen appliances.
And enough personal belongings to make one thing painfully clear.
Mark hadn’t come to visit.
He had come prepared to stay.
Then the person on the phone said something that made my entire body go still.
“There is something you don’t know about your divorce.”
My divorce.
Twenty-seven years of marriage.
Months of legal documents.
Bank statements.
Property records.
Arguments over furniture and savings.
I thought it was all finished.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
“What don’t I know?”
The answer came in a whisper.
“Your house wasn’t supposed to be yours alone.”
I couldn’t speak.
