For one suspended second, my brain refused to process the scene. The house sat in a manicured pocket of Naperville where the lawns were sculpted and the mailboxes gleamed. People did not drag rental trucks across grass in neighborhoods like that unless something had gone deeply wrong. Then Ryan looked up and saw me, and before his face reorganized itself into a smile, I saw guilt.
Not surprise.
Not embarrassment.
Guilt.
That was all I needed.
I got out of the car, shut the door carefully, and walked toward him with the same cold concentration I used when I entered a boardroom already knowing someone at the table had been stealing. The labels on the boxes told the story faster than he could. DONNA—LINENS. DONNA—KITCHEN. DONNA—SHOES. This was not one weekend bag. This was a life being relocated. Ryan shifted the box in his arms and smiled too quickly.
“Claire, babe. You’re home early.”
“Why is your mother moving into my house?”
He laughed, but the sound was empty. “It’s a whole disaster. Total emergency. Mom’s landlord pulled something shady. Lease issue. She had to be out by noon. I couldn’t leave her stranded.”