“You told me your mail was going to your brother’s office,” I said.
“The legal situation changes every week, Rebecca,” he said, his voice dropping to a reassuring whisper. “You have to trust me to manage the details.”
He reached out and touched my shoulder, but I stepped back, pretending to look for my keys on the filing cabinet.
At six o’clock, the damp oak leaves of November smelled like wet paper along the duplex porch steps. Brenda was waiting by my screen door, her hands tucked deep into her wool apron pockets.
“The mail carrier left this by mistake in my box,” she said, handing me a long white envelope.
It was the blank lease renewal draft for my half of the duplex, with the monthly rent of eight hundred and fifty dollars highlighted in yellow ink.
“I need to know if I should list the unit on the market, Rebecca,” Brenda said, her voice gentle but firm. “If you are moving out with him, I need forty-five days of notice.”
“We are still looking at the townhouse,” I said, holding the paper against my stomach.
