“But they have changed the locks on the house,” I said, thinking of my clothes and belongings already packed into garbage bags on the porch.

“They have changed the deadbolts on the front doors,” Arthur agreed. “But they do not legally own the property yet.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a heavy, brass skeleton key.

“This is for the old cellar door,” he said. “It bypasses the main security system because it was never wired into the digital grid.”

My sister, Clara, walked into the kitchen from her small bedroom, her face pale.

She had heard every word through the thin walls of the trailer.

“Take my car,” Clara said, tossing her keys onto the table. “Victoria knows Arthur’s sedan.”

“No,” Arthur said, standing up. “I am her legal counsel. My presence protects her from trespass charges.”

He put his wool coat on, the fabric smelling of cedar and old rain.

I folded Garrett’s letter carefully and slipped it into the deep pocket of my cardigan.

My hands were cold, and my chest felt tight with a mixture of dread and sudden, sharp hope.