Chapter 5: The Upstairs

Nobody said a word for a long moment.

Twenty-two people in orange jackets, standing.

Karin's chief of staff leaned down and whispered in her ear.

She smiled for the cameras, picked up her gavel bag and walked out the side door.

The council president adjourned the meeting to nobody.

In the hallway, the drivers shook my hand one at a time.

Some of them had only ever heard me on the radio.

"You moved my route three times," the woman with the frost-burned cheeks said. "I hated you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be right." She squeezed my hand hard. "You're right."

Jens drove me home at ten.

The lobby door of my building opened with my fob.

The condo door didn't open with my key.

I tried it three times.

There was a new brass lock on the door and a typed note taped above it.

This unit is the property of the Thorsby Family Trust. Personal effects may be collected by appointment.

The note was signed by Karin's chief of staff.

I stood there with the useless key in my hand.

Everything I owned was on the other side of that door.

My winter boots. My grandmother's quilt. The folded ultrasound picture, which I'd moved to my nightstand that morning.

Jens read the note over my shoulder.

"By appointment," he said. "That's nice."

"I'll get a hotel."

"With what? They froze your city card on Saturday. You told me in the truck."

I hadn't thought he was listening.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I have a duplex in Lakeside. I'm in the bottom. The top's empty. It has heat and a bathtub and a terrible carpet."

"Jens."

"It has a door that locks from the inside," he said. "Your key. Nobody else's."

I looked at the brass lock.

"How terrible is the carpet?"

"Mustard."

"Okay," I said.

The upstairs was cold and smelled like dust and somebody's old cigarettes.

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