It was a magnificent four-bedroom house on a tree-lined street, with tall windows, a stone fireplace, and a garden designed by Harold himself.
Seven years earlier, I’d arranged for it to be purchased through our family trust so Darren could have a stable place to live.
Darren knew a family trust had bought the house.
What he didn’t understand was who had funded that trust and who currently controlled it.
Thalia believed Darren had provided the house through his own resources and inheritance.
Neither of them had ever bothered to clarify the arrangement.
When I arrived, Thalia opened the door wearing a cream-colored designer blouse.
Her eyes traveled from my gray shoes to my cardigan.
“Oh,” she said. “You actually wore that.”
I smiled.
“Good evening to you too, Thalia.”
She stepped aside.
The dining room was beautifully arranged.
Six place settings stood around the polished walnut table, though only three of us were eating.
The china matched.
The crystal glasses sparkled.
Fresh flowers rested in a silver vase.
My place was at the far end.
The plate was from an entirely different set.
My glass was cloudy.
And my fork was bent slightly near the handle.
I examined it.
The fork had belonged to Harold’s old picnic set.
I’d brought it here years earlier along with several boxes of kitchen supplies.
I recognized the tiny scratch he’d made while trying to straighten it with pliers.
“Something wrong?” Thalia asked.
“No.”
I sat down.
Dinner began pleasantly enough.
Darren asked about my week.
