I smiled and set the phone back on the laminate tabletop.

It was done.

Carl was officially locked out of his own life.

Down in the basement, the old water pipes clanked against the ceiling joists.

I heard the distant, rhythmic hum of the ancient boiler.

Then, I heard his footsteps moving quickly across the concrete below.

He was probably trying to log into his online portal.

He had a little desk down there next to his lathe.

I stood up, walked to the hallway, and leaned my ear against the heavy basement door.

The painted wood was cold against my cheek.

“Mallerie!” his voice came, muffled but sharp through the floorboards.

He sounded frantic.

“Mallerie, open this door!”

I didn’t answer him.

I just listened to him pace.

His heavy work boots scraped against the grit on the basement floor.

He was dialing a number on his cell phone; I could hear the faint, repetitive beep of his keys through the gap in the doorframe.

He was trying to call his bank’s customer service line.

“What do you mean the security questions have been changed?” he muttered.