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“Goings-on?” My brows knit together. “What kind ofgoings-on?”
“I don't know rightly what to say...”
The elevator opens, and I notice my apartment door is wide open. Not waiting to hear an explanation, I march across the foyer and into my penthouse. My half-empty penthouse. “What on earth? Mr. Brinkman, I've been robbed.”
My mind is still trying to catch up when two men come out of my room carrying a bureau. I’mstillbeing robbed? Fifi starts yipping, and I look to Mr. Brinkman for help. Only he looks back with apology but no manly effort to stop the criminals. I should be worried about my safety, but it feels like a dream I’m watching from afar. I pull my phone out, finally remembering to call the police, but Brinkman steadies my arm, pulling me out of the way of the men.
They have the nameJohnson Family Moversembroidered on their coveralls. What is happening? Why are they moving my things?
“Mrs. Finnegan, I'm so sorry for your misfortune. I have been given leave to let these gentlemen take everything on this list. But rest assured, ma'am, each item they put in their trucks is being accounted for downstairs and not one single thing that isn't on this list will be allowed off our property.”
I stare at the paper in his hand. “I don't understand. What is happening?”
“Perhaps you should sit?”
We both look around the room, empty of my furniture and any place suitable for sitting. “Perhaps you should just tell me what I need to know.”
“There has been a mix-up, I'm sure. But it appears that your Mr. Finnegan has left behind debts of some magnitude.”
“Richard? Left behind? What are you talking about? He's in Munich this week, but he hasn't left behind anything.” Inhaling a steadying breath, I count to five before exhaling. This will all be explained. I don’t need to panic. Richard will take care of everything.
“Mr. Finnegan never made it to Munich.” As if my concierge has suddenly become Mr. Finnegan's personal secretary.
“I spoke to him last night. No, wait, the night before last.”
“Yes, well, according to the lawyers, yours and the building's, he was not speaking to you from Munich. Have you spoken to him today?”
I shake my head. “No, not yesterday either.” I try to recall anything odd from the conversation from two days ago, but he was perfunctorily polite as always.
“Mrs. Finnegan, your lawyer was here this afternoon. He has left you a message and some paperwork on the counter. I'm regretfully sorry, of course, that I cannot be of more service.”
Inside the folder is a list of the things the “movers” are taking and an appointment card for the next morning. The list is court ordered, signed by a judge. None of it makes sense. Where is Richard? Why won’t he answer his phone? My eyes hit on the last listed item, and I feel tears for the first time since my grandfather's funeral.
But of course.
My grandmother’s ring.
I slide it off my finger and lay it on an end table they haven’t taken yet, but surely will. As light glints off the sapphires, I remember my thoughts from lunch. Stripped of my money, my apartment, and my husband, who am I? What will become of me ? I may as well not exist.
