Chapter 5: What Was Mine

I went back for my things on Sunday morning, and I didn't go alone.

Our charge nurse came in her church clothes.

A tech from days came with a folding dolly and a roll of packing tape.

A sheriff's deputy was waiting at the curb in Dane's street.

I had called the non-emergency line on Saturday night and asked for someone to stand by while I collected my belongings.

The deputy was about fifty, with a grey mustache and a tired face.

"Ma'am," he said. "I'm here to keep it quiet. I can't decide who owns what."

"I only want what's mine," I said.

"Then that's easy."

It wasn't.

Dane opened the door in a pressed shirt, with his hair combed.

His face twisted when he saw the deputy.

"What is this?"

"I'm picking up my things," I said. "A coffee maker, my knives, my books and a quilt."

"You gave me that stuff."

"I left it here. That's different."

"It's a free country, Bethany. You can't just march into my home with a cop."

"She can walk in with me," the deputy said.

"She'll walk out with whatever you hand her. Your choice, sir, how fast."

Dane stepped back.

The house was bigger than I remembered.

There was a new couch in the living room.

A big mirror hung in the hall where my coat hook used to be.

Sierra stood in the kitchen in a grey robe with her arms crossed.

It was my robe.

I looked at it, and she looked at it, and neither of us said anything.

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