Part 11
The winter passed quickly, and before we knew it, the snow had melted from the flowerbeds, replaced by the first green shoots of spring crocuses.
My father was no longer using the wheelchair. He walked with a sturdy wooden cane now, his steps deliberate but strong as he moved down the hallway from his bedroom to the kitchen every morning. His recovery had confounded the doctors at the rehab center, but I knew the secret.
Peace is a powerful medicine.
One Saturday afternoon, exactly six months after the night the smart lock flashed red, I was out in the front yard pulling weeds from around the hydrangea bushes.
A car slowed down at the curb.
My muscles tensed instinctively, my mind flashing back to Diane’s silver sedan or Travis’s familiar truck. But it was just the mail carrier, dropping a thick yellow envelope into our box before driving away.
I walked down the driveway to collect the mail.
Inside the envelope was a letter from a real estate agency downtown, along with a check for a modest sum of money.
It was the final payout from the liquidation of Travis’s car—the one we had bought together using a joint account during our second year of marriage. Michael had managed to force a sale of the asset to cover my legal fees and the cost of repairing the kitchen cabinets Diane’s contractor had managed to scratch before I threw them out.
Attached to the check was a small, handwritten note from Travis’s lawyer, sent informally.
"Mr. Brooks has relocated to a smaller apartment outside the city limits," it read. "The Brooks family requests no further contact."
I smiled, the wind catching my hair as I looked at the paper. They thought they were punishing me with their silence, unaware that it was the greatest gift they could have ever given me.
I walked back up the porch steps, passing the spot where Jenna had left the cream apron, passing the keypad that had saved my life.
Inside, the kitchen was flooded with the warm, golden light of the setting sun. My dad was standing by the stove, carefully stirring a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, using his good hand to hold the spoon.
"Smells good, Dad," I said, setting the mail on the counter next to a fresh jar of lemon drops.
May you like
"It’s an old Vance family recipe," he said, turning to look at me with a wink. "No strange organization systems required."
I laughed, leaning my head against his shoulder as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The house was warm, the doors were locked, and for the first time in a very long time, I knew exactly who belonged inside.
