“Don’t,” I said to him, not unkindly. “Don’t hide behind what Sabine thought. What did you sign, Darien?”
The garage went silent except for the hum of the old freezer.
Sabine’s eyes flicked to Darien. A warning.
Darien didn’t see it. He was staring at the cracked photograph in my hands.
“She had me sign a listing agreement,” he whispered. “Just to see. She said it wasn’t binding unless you signed too. She said you’d sign. She said you’d want to downsize eventually anyway, that you’d thank us—”
“And did you forge my name anywhere else?” I asked. The question came from somewhere cold and clear inside me. “A power of attorney? A home equity form?”
Sabine inhaled sharply. “That’s an accusation.”
“It’s a question,” I said. “Because fifteen days ago my son looked me in the eye and promised he’d water my plants and get the mail. Now my room is gray and there’s a realtor’s estimate in my photograph box. So I’m asking what else you did while I was gone.”
Darien’s shoulders started to shake. He wasn’t crying yet, but his breathing had gone uneven, shallow.
“We took a loan,” he said in a rush, the words tumbling over each other before Sabine could stop him. “Six months ago. Before you left. Sabine’s mother needed surgery, and the cards were maxed. We used the house. Sabine said you wouldn’t mind because it’s family equity. The broker said with your credit—”
“My credit?” My voice cracked.
“He used your name, Coralie,” Sabine snapped, dropping the pretense. “He told the broker you co-signed. Because you would have, if you’d been asked! You have perfect credit and thousands sitting in equity doing nothing while we drown!”
The papers slipped from my hand and scattered across the concrete.
I stared at my son.
“You put my house up as collateral without telling me.”
Darien sank down until he was sitting on the cold floor, his back against the freezer, his head in his hands. He looked exactly like he had at twelve when he’d broken Louis’s watch and tried to hide it.
“I was going to tell you,” he choked. “I was. But the payments started and then Sabine said if we could just sell, we could pay it off and you could get a nice condo near Martha, and everyone would win. She said you were stuck here anyway. Haunted by Dad.”
I thought of Louis’s crooked photograph. Of the cream walls I painted with my own hands while grieving.
Haunted.
Sabine stepped forward, her voice hard now, stripped of sweetness. “You don’t understand pressure, Coralie. You live here like a museum. Mortgage paid off in ’09, taxes low because of your widow exemption, while we pay two thousand a month for a shoebox we don’t even own. Darien works nights. I work days. We see each other on Sundays. You have three empty bedrooms. Three! And you act like we’re criminals for wanting one decent room.”
“You are not criminals for wanting,” I said. “You are wrong for taking.”
I knelt slowly. My knees ached on the concrete. I picked up the scattered market analysis, folded it once, twice, and placed it on top of the freezer.
“How much?” I asked Darien.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Forty-seven thousand. Plus interest. They sent a notice last week. While you were gone. That’s why she—” He gestured weakly toward the house. “She thought if we made the master look modern, we could list fast. Before you found the letter.”
A letter.
My heart hammered.
“Where is it?”
Darien pointed toward the house. “Kitchen drawer. Under the takeout menus.”
I stood. My legs felt strange, light and heavy at once. I walked past Sabine without looking at her. She didn’t touch me, but I felt her stare burning between my shoulder blades.
The kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. My chipped yellow mug was gone from the sink, replaced by matching white ones. The little magnet Darien made me in kindergarten — macaroni painted gold — was missing from the fridge.
