Chapter 11: The Front Row

Claire's POV

The lawyer taped the notice to my father's front door at eight in the morning.

We had gone back to the house for his pills and a clean shirt.

Dad stood on the porch with his hand on the railing.

He read the paper while the lawyer was still smoothing the tape.

NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE.

The house where I had learned to ride a bike.

"Sixty days to vacate," the lawyer said briskly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Corr. It's the bank's decision."

"Which bank?" I said.

"Holloway Capital Partners, ma'am."

He walked back to a black car where Gretchen VanDerzee sat in the passenger seat with sunglasses on.

She lifted two fingers from her knee and gave me a little wave.

I turned to say something to my father.

He had gone gray.

He took a step toward me, and his hand went to his chest.

"Claire," he said, quite calmly. "I think something is wrong."

Then he sat down on the porch boards as if his legs had been cut.

I screamed for the neighbors, and I called the ambulance with my own thumb shaking on the phone.

The ride took ten minutes and felt like a week.

At the hospital, they took him straight through the double doors, and a nurse in navy scrubs stopped me with one hand on my arm.

It was Rhiannon.

"I've got him," she said. "I'm not leaving his bed. Sit down, Claire, you're white as paper. Sit."

I sat.

I sat in a plastic chair with my coat on and my hands between my knees for two hours.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Was Our Marriage Your Revenge? from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.