My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

He shrugged. “Maybe not enough.”

Liar.

Behind him, another shadow moved on the porch.

Two men.

Wonderful.

I gripped the walking stick harder. “Get out.”

“Lady, I’m just here to pick up some furniture.”

The sentence was so surreal that for a second fear gave way to disbelief.

“What?”

He lifted one hand, placating. “I was told there was a chair and some decor pieces already paid for. Facebook Marketplace.”

I stared at him.

Then I understood.

Diana.

Of course.

She had not broken in personally. She had done something more insulting: outsourced theft through local bargain hunters.

The second man stepped partly into view outside. “This the place or not?”

The first glanced back. “I think maybe there’s been a mix-up.”

A hot, almost hysterical laugh rose in me.

“A mix-up,” I said. “Yes. There has definitely been a mix-up. Here is the part where you leave before I stop being polite.”

The first man held up his phone. “Look, a lady named D posted the items. Said cash only. Gave us the side code and said nobody would be here till the weekend.”

I came down the rest of the stairs, every nerve lit now with fury stronger than fear. “Show me.”

He hesitated.

I took one more step and raised the walking stick slightly.