The rain drummed against the metal roof of my sister’s trailer.

I sat on a faded vinyl chair, staring at the three cardboard boxes on the linoleum floor.

Those boxes held everything I had left of my life with Garrett.

Just forty-eight hours ago, I lived in the grand brick estate on the hill.

Then Garrett’s heart stopped, and the locks were changed before his body was even cold.

“You have no legal right to be here, Eleanor,” Victoria had said.

She had stood on the marble portico of the mansion, holding my winter coat by the collar.

Her brother, Charles, had stood right behind her, his hands jammed into his pockets.

“Our father’s will is clear,” Charles added, looking down at his polished leather boots.

“The house belongs to the family trust now, and you are not family.”

I had married Garrett three years ago, but we had been high school sweethearts.

We had found our way back to each other after decades apart.

His children had never forgiven me for the happiness we shared.

They saw me as an interloper, a woman from the wrong side of the county.

My sister, Jean, set a mug of black coffee on the laminate table next to me.

“Drink some, El,” she said softly.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

My throat felt tight, clogged with the smell of damp earth and cheap carpet.

Headlights swept across the small kitchen window.

A heavy black sedan pulled into the gravel driveway, its tires crunching the wet stones.

I stood up, my joints stiff from sitting so long.

“Is that the sheriff back again?” Jean asked, peering through the frayed curtains.

“No,” I said, recognizing the car. “That is Arthur Vance.”

Arthur had been Garrett’s personal attorney and closest friend for forty years.

He stepped out of the sedan, holding a black umbrella over his grey head.

He walked up the three metal steps of the trailer and knocked on the door.

Jean opened it, letting the cold wind rush inside.

Arthur stepped into the warmth, shaking his umbrella outside before closing the door.

He looked at my boxes, then at my pale face.