I listed every account Brandon had ever touched. Every bill he’d ever “helped” pay. Every password he might have guessed because he knew my habits. Every vendor he’d ever spoken to on my behalf. I knew, better than most people, that entitlement doesn’t end when someone is told no. It just changes shape. It becomes paperwork. It becomes whisper campaigns. It becomes “concern.”
By the time the sun dropped behind the dunes, my life was locked down tighter than a corporate merger.
The next morning, Sarah called. “We got the emergency protective order hearing scheduled,” she said. “Tomorrow at ten.”
“Good,” I replied.
There was a pause. “Eleanor,” she said, tone gentler, “are you okay?”
I looked out at the ocean. The Patterson girls were building a sandcastle. Their parents sat under an umbrella reading. Peace, rented and paid for, happening right on my property like it was always meant to.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just… done.”
Sarah exhaled. “That’s the right mood for court,” she said. “Bring your documentation. Especially the tenant harassment log.”
I brought everything.