steps, but he blocked the doorway with his arm.
“Did you hear me? Get off this property before I call the police.”
“Call them,” I said. “I’d love to ask why you’re throwing her clothes in the trash before probate’s even started.”
His jaw tightened. For a second, he glanced toward the neighborhood, perhaps checking for witnesses.
That was enough.
I ducked under his arm and entered the hallway.
“Hey. HEY.”
I hurried down the hall, past the kitchen where Marianne had poured me bitter tea every Sunday and the
