My shoes were still wet from the cemetery grass, leaving dark, overlapping circles on Margaret wool rug. The afternoon light was dying outside the Tudor-style windows, casting long, gray shadows across the floral sofa where she used to sit.
Ryan did not look at the damp wool of my coat where it hung over the arm of the chair. He stood near the fireplace, his broad frame casting a shadow that reached all the way to the hallway door.
“You have forty-eight hours to pack your things and go, Elena,” he said.
He sat down with his knees wide, his heavy winter coat unzipped to reveal his gold wristwatch. He did not look at me when he spoke, keeping his eyes on his boots.
I did not answer him, only tightened my fingers around the strap of my black leather purse. I felt the cold metal of my plain silver wedding ring press into my palm.
His sister, Lisa, sat on the edge of the brick hearth, her heavy silver necklace catching the dim light. She gave a high-pitched, breathy laugh that ended too quickly, her eyes darting toward the hallway.
“We have to be practical,” Lisa said, tugging at the silver chain around her neck. “The utilities alone are three hundred dollars a month, and we cannot afford to keep the heat running for nothing.”
Arthur, the estate lawyer, stood by the mahogany sideboard. He was adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a slow, deliberate hand, looking down at his leather folder.
The living room smelled of damp wool coats and the faint, sweet scent of the lavender soap Margaret had used. It was the same soap I had bought for her every week at the local market.
“The house is a significant asset,” Arthur said, his voice slow and rhythmic. “We must proceed with the administration of the estate without any unnecessary delay or complications.”
I twisted my plain silver wedding ring, feeling the metal cold and tight against my skin. The silence in the room was heavier than the damp air we had brought in from the cemetery.
“Two days,” I said, my voice barely louder than the dry hum of the old basement heater.

