My fingers tightened around the warm tin of lemon bars.
I leaned my shoulder against the cool drywall of the hallway, the plaster rough against my back. My mother’s silver watch ticked on my wrist, a tiny, steady sound that suddenly felt too loud in the narrow corridor.
“The estate is a mess anyway,” Gary’s voice came through the gap in the door, dry and light. “But as long as she keeps sending the tax payments to the county, nobody is going to look at the deed.”
I held my breath, the metal tin of lemon bars cold against my palms.
“I’ll call you back when she leaves,” Gary said.
The phone clicked as he hung up.
I waited three seconds, then took two loud steps forward and pushed the kitchen door open. The cabinet hinge gave its familiar, high-pitched squeak as it swung back.
Gary turned around from the kitchen counter, his palms immediately sliding down to rub against his thighs. His face softened, the sharp line of his mouth melting back into the familiar, weary curve I had known for ten years.
