Jaclyn came out onto the second-floor balcony in dark sunglasses and a bright pink sweater.

Her long acrylic nails clicked along the metal handrail as she walked down the outside stairs.

“You sure took your time,” Jaclyn said, her bright voice carrying across the empty lot.

“Did your mother write you a script?”

Clay lifted the first plastic tote out and set it on the concrete landing by her front door.

“Your stuff’s here.

All of it.”

Jaclyn folded her arms, her sweet tone going sharp.