Chapter 4: The Locked House

My mother's ashes were in a blue cardboard box on the shelf in the hall closet of the house on Lindell Road.

I had put them there six years ago, meaning to move them within the month.

There had been the funeral, then the firm's biggest year, then Curtis's residency review.

Moving her had always been the next thing.

On Wednesday evening, after the board meeting, I drove to the house to take her out.

My key did not turn in the front lock.

I tried it twice and then looked at the brass, which was new.

The locks had been changed.

I rang the bell.

Kendra Pruell opened the door in a gray silk robe with her hair down.

It was my robe.

I had bought it in March and never worn it.

"Maureen," she said. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I'd like to come in and get something that belongs to me."

"I'm not sure that's appropriate."

"It's my house."

"It's Curtis's home," she said, and she smiled. "He's staying here until it closes. His mother is here too."

I looked past her.

In the front room, Rosalind Ainsley sat in my armchair with a cup of tea on a saucer, and she did not get up.

"Come in or don't, Maureen," she said. "Don't stand on the porch. The neighbors will see."

The neighbors were already at their window.

The man next door had been carrying a trash bag to the curb and had stopped halfway.

I went in.

The front room had been rearranged.

My reading chair had been moved to the corner and Kendra's laptop sat on the coffee table beside two wine glasses.

"Where's Curtis?" I asked.

"At the hospital, doing the work you tried to get him fired from," Rosalind said. "He'll be home late."

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