Chapter 9: Chicago

At ten past ten on Saturday morning, there was a locksmith's van parked in front of my building.

The man himself was on his knees in the sixth-floor hallway when Dean and I stepped out of the elevator.

He had my door open and a new lock cylinder in his hand.

The door was mine. The lease was in my name, and it was the only name on it.

"Morning," I said.

He looked up. "Ma'am, I'm working. You'll have to wait."

"Who hired you?"

"The tenant. Mr. Hollander called yesterday."

"Mr. Hollander isn't the tenant."

He stopped turning the screwdriver.

The door across the hall opened a crack.

An elderly couple I had said hello to for five years stood inside, watching.

I took out my phone and showed the locksmith the first page of the lease.

"That's my name," I said. "My signature, my deposit and my rent for five years."

"I haven't agreed to a new lock."

"I was told it was both of them."

"You were told wrong."

His eyes went to Dean, who stood behind me with his arms crossed.

Then the apartment door swung all the way open.

Leigh stood there in my robe.

It was the navy one with the white piping. I had bought it on sale the winter Mom died.

Her hair was wet from my shower. Her feet were bare on my floor.

"Oh," she said. "You came all this way."

"I live here," I said.

"Not anymore. Troy said you left." She smiled, tilted her head. "He said you were having a hard time."

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