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“Watch out for those terrible boys.”
There’s never a warning when my stepmother’s syrupy voice steps into my thoughts. It doesn’t happen as much as it used to, but it does happen.
Nothing about the current situation mirrors Olivia’s murderous schemes. Yet my heart hammers and my palms feel slick on the steering wheel as I direct the car through the streets of my childhood.
The memory of Olivia chose this moment for a reason, to remind me that an important lesson hasn’t been learned.
People can surprise us in very bad ways.
I’m confused when I see the moving truck. None of the homes on my street have been on the market lately.
But there is a moving van squatting right in front of my house with the cargo door wide open.
Then I see a man wheel my white dresser up the ramp and into the truck.
“What the hell?” For a surreal second I’m sure that I’m hallucinating
Nope, there are the butterfly shaped knobs that Uncle Josh found at a hardware store many years ago.
A mattress is the next item to get carried out of the front door.
I know it’s mine because the light blue fitted sheet is still in place.
My first thought as I park crookedly behind the truck is that we’re being robbed.
My second thought is that the robbers have extremely strange taste, bypassing the big screen television, leather sofas and antique silver collection in favor of my chipped childhood bedroom furniture.
But the red Jag squatting in the middle of the circular driveway answers some questions and produces new ones.
I know whose car that is.
“Wait,” I tell the two men loading my mattress into the van. “Just wait a minute. This is my property and I have not given anyone permission to move it.”
They’re not interested.
“Talk to the boss,” huffs the one pushing the mattress from the back.
“Who is the boss?”
“Fred,” yells the other guy.
I’m about to start screaming. “Where is Fred?”
“In the house. Maybe.”
At the front door I find a man in blue coveralls removing the lock. “Are you Fred?”
“No, I’m Miguel.”
“This is my house, Miguel.”
He shrugs. “It’s nice.”
This is starting to feel like a carnival ride, only less fun.
Miguel steps aside long enough for me to walk through the open door.
There, in the middle of the living room, looking coiffed and glamorous, is my least favorite reporter, last seen exiting my father’s office buttoning up her blouse.
