“The house on Birchwood Lane,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Three bedrooms, corner lot, paid down to almost nothing. I bought it two years before I met you, Marcus. My name. Only my name.” I watched the words land on him like slow rain, each one soaking deeper than the last. Patricia’s hand tightened on the edge of the stove, and I realized she was doing math, the same math she’d done when she moved her suitcases back in, except now the numbers were coming out wrong.

Marcus set his coffee down without drinking it. “You never told me you owned property,” he said, and there was something accusing in it, as if my honesty were the betrayal instead of their scheme. I almost laughed. For fifty days I had been treated like a boarder in a home I was expected to fund, and now the man who let it happen wanted to know why I’d kept one card in my pocket. Before I could answer, Patricia spoke, and her voice had changed completely. It was soft now, warm, the voice of someone who has just remembered you are useful. “Well,” she said, smiling, “that changes things, doesn’t it? Perhaps we could all move there together.”