I had picked it up from my lawyer’s office late yesterday afternoon, just before they closed.

Inside were the divorce papers and a petition for an emergency eviction.

Beneath those documents lay the copies of the bank statements I had printed out earlier that week.

I stared at the signature on the home equity loan application.

It was my name, written in elegant, flowing cursive.

But I had never signed it.

Rylan had spent years perfecting my handwriting.

I tucked the papers back into the envelope and walked out to my car.

The morning air was damp and smelled of wet pavement and exhaust.

The drive back to my grandmother’s house took twenty minutes.

The sun was rising, a pale yellow strip behind the gray clouds.

I parked my car at the curb instead of the driveway.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I walked up the concrete path.

The brass doorknob felt freezing under my bare fingers.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The smell of bacon and maple syrup filled the hallway.

It was a warm, domestic smell that felt like a complete mockery.