None of my client files were in the boxes.

None of the tax papers from my freelance work were there either.

Evelyn set the plastic spatula on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the mattress beside me.

She rubbed my shoulder with her warm palm, sliding her hand down to my elbow with steady pressure.

“He thinks he put you out on the street,” she said softly.

“He changed the deadbolts forty-eight hours before his own deadline,” I said.