Upstairs, the chaotic symphony of a panicked exodus began. Drawers were violently slammed. Suitcase zippers screamed. Melissa’s voice vibrated through the floorboards in one continuous, venomous hiss of blame.
Sandra attempted to negotiate her surrender on the staircase, clutching the banister. “Surely I can retain my room for a week, Iris? I am not a party to whatever this mess is!”
“Your daughter’s cousin has a sectional sofa, Sandra,” I replied coldly. “You have until 9:00 p.m.”
At the kitchen table, hunching over the oak wood, Derek signed the repayment agreement. He used a cheap plastic promotional pen from his bankrupt construction firm. I noticed the irony, but I remained silent. Some debts collect themselves.
At exactly 7:30 p.m., the locksmith knocked. He was a quiet, efficient man with a heavy drill. For the next hour, I stood in the foyer, listening to the dual soundtrack of my victory: the high-pitched whine of new brass deadbolts being installed, harmonizing beautifully with the heavy, grinding wheels of suitcases being dragged down my driveway.
At 8:52 p.m., Melissa descended the stairs for the final time. She was hauling a massive trunk, her hair wild, her silk robe swapped for sweatpants. She paused by the console table and hurled her set of house keys against the wood, gouging the varnish.
She stepped uncomfortably close to my face. “You will die entirely alone in this empty house, Iris.”
I stepped back, pulling the heavy oak front door wide open, letting the cool Ohio night air rush in. “No, Melissa. My mother almost did. Drive safe.”
I shut the door softly behind her. The satisfying click of the latch was the sound of a tumor being successfully excised.
At exactly 9:00 p.m., the locksmith dropped two sets of pristine silver keys into my palm. I locked the new deadbolt. It was the most profoundly peaceful mechanical sound I had heard in six years.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Tom Beran.
Executed. Every single line. – TB.
