At twenty-eight, I’d told my father the clause sounded cold and unnecessary. At forty-one, standing in my own kitchen while strangers photographed bags full of my clothes, I finally understood his wisdom.

Russell switched on a small digital recorder and looked toward me. “Elisa, did you agree to leave this property today?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you agree to have your personal belongings packed?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you give Ms. Fields permission to use your personal clothing or jewelry?”