Sloan snorted and shoved two pairs of shoes into the corner of the bin.

“He was a charity kid you fed at your kitchen table twenty years ago,” Sloan said.

“He doesn’t own a house in Upper Arlington.”

She pulled the closet door shut with a loud click of the latch and picked up the marker to write on the lid.

“Pack your shoes before nine o’clock,” Sloan said, turning back toward the hallway.

“Mark wants these boxes sitting by the front door when the transport van arrives.”