But Veronica didn’t wait long to show who she really was.
Two days after the funeral, I was standing in the kitchen trying to force down a piece of toast when she walked in.
She looked flawless — silk sleepwear, perfectly styled hair, red lipstick like she was preparing for a dinner party instead of mourning.
She poured herself a glass of wine.
Then she looked at me and said flatly,
“You should start packing.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You have thirty-six hours,” she said calmly. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you or your… bastards living here.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’m due in two weeks,” I whispered. “Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged.
“Motel. Shelter. Not my problem.”
My hands trembled as I gripped the counter.
