At exactly 7:30 p.m., the locksmith knocked. He was a quiet, efficient man with a heavy drill. For the next hour, I stood in the foyer, listening to the dual soundtrack of my victory: the high-pitched whine of new brass deadbolts being installed, harmonizing beautifully with the heavy, grinding wheels of suitcases being dragged down my driveway.
At 8:52 p.m., Melissa descended the stairs for the final time. She was hauling a massive trunk, her hair wild, her silk robe swapped for sweatpants. She paused by the console table and hurled her set of house keys against the wood, gouging the varnish.
She stepped uncomfortably close to my face. “You will die entirely alone in this empty house, Iris.”
I stepped back, pulling the heavy oak front door wide open, letting the cool Ohio night air rush in. “No, Melissa. My mother almost did. Drive safe.”
I shut the door softly behind her. The satisfying click of the latch was the sound of a tumor being successfully excised.
