“It’s the estate’s house.” He pushed past me, missing my shoulder by an inch.

“And the estate has a process, and you’re not a lawyer, and, I mean, look at you.”

At the door he turned back.

“Don’t sign anything until I call you.

I mean it, Sienna.”

The study smelled of his cigarettes and my father’s pipe tobacco, and every drawer he had gone through stuck out half an inch from its slot.

Richard showed up at two with the car and a stack of boxes I hadn’t packed.