My father, Preston Ward, had his hands in his coat pockets, heels planted apart. My mother, Victoria Ward, had her arms folded tight under a cream wool wrap she’d probably bought specifically to look elegant while ruining my life. Even from that distance, I could see the shape of her smile.
Not happy.
Satisfied.
Predatory.
I opened the door with the chain still on. “Yes?”
The deputy looked down at the page, then back at me. “Rowan Sinclair?”
Nobody used Sinclair unless they were being legal, medical, or threatening.
“Yes.”
“I have a writ of possession, court-ordered eviction. You are ordered to vacate these premises by noon today.”
The word eviction didn’t land all at once. It broke into me in pieces. Court-ordered. Vacate. Noon. Today.
I stared at him. “This is my house.”
“Ma’am, I’m here to execute an order signed by the court.”
