“Claire,” I said, “I don’t have anywhere else.” The lawyer stared at his desk, suddenly allergic to eye contact.
Claire shrugged. “Not my problem.”
I drove back to the house and packed like a person underwater.
Grandpa’s chair was still angled toward the window, his blanket folded over the arm. His coffee mug sat in the sink.
Claire hovered in the hallway, arms folded.
“Don’t take anything that isn’t yours,” she said.
When I looked at her, she smiled. “Desperate people steal.”
“What’s mine?” I snapped.
She tilted her head. “Not this.”
