The proof that even now, even with Carissa’s career and house and stability and discipline, she could still step into the center of any room and walk out with the thing Carissa loved.
That knowledge hurt, but it also clarified.
Carissa took out her phone, opened the photo of the deed Denise had sent earlier that week, and held it up.
“You both have until Monday to figure out how humiliating you want the next steps to be,” she said. “Because if either of you is still in this house after that, I begin the formal process.”
Damen laughed, but there was fear in it now. “You’d really do that.”
Carissa met his eyes. “I am beginning to suspect you don’t know me at all.”
On Sunday morning, their mother called.
Of course she did.
Linda Hale still lived in the same split-level house in Naperville where both girls had grown up, though Tom Hale had died four years earlier after a second stroke and the place had felt half-empty ever since. Carissa almost didn’t answer. Then she saw the time—8:12 a.m.—and knew this was not a social call. Linda only called that early when she wanted to manage reality before it hardened.
“Your sister is beside herself,” Linda said without greeting.