“Tell him to start with the deadbolt on the front porch,” I said.

Sunday morning brought a steady cold rain against the porch screens.

Seth came up the wooden steps at nine o’clock sharp, his heavy boots thudding on the wet boards before he slammed his fist against the door frame.

“Natalie!

Open this door right now!” Seth shouted.

I opened the inner wooden door four inches, leaving the heavy brass security chain locked in its track.

“Your clothes and boxes are stacked on the covered back patio,” I said through the screen.