My eyes dropped to the line and the blood in my body went cold.
341 Hawthorne Lane, Apartment 2B.
My parents’ old rental in Gresham. The place I had lived for maybe eight weeks during junior year of high school, before we moved again because my father had decided the landlord was “a parasite.” Sixteen years earlier.
“That’s not my address.”
He looked back down. “The return says service was accepted by an adult female occupant on November third.”
I lifted my eyes to my mother.
She gave me a little wave.
Small. Mocking. Casual enough to make me feel sick.
“She signed for papers meant for me,” I said. My voice came out thin and sharp, like glass. “At an address I haven’t lived at in sixteen years.”
The deputy’s jaw flexed. “Ma’am, I still have to follow the writ. But if there’s a service issue, the courthouse opens at eight-thirty.”
I took out my phone. “Hold that steady.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The paperwork. Hold it still.”
I photographed every page. The seal. The case number. The wrong address. The supposed cause of action. I zoomed in so far the paper fibers looked like skin.
From across the street, my father called out, “Pack your things, Rowan. It’s over.”
I looked up at him, really looked. Same gray jacket he wore to every serious family occasion. Same square jaw. Same careful haircut. Same face that could pass for reasonable in any courtroom in America.
He had come to watch me lose my home before breakfast.
