That night I took the spare keys off my own ring and counted them. The main house key, the mailbox key, the workshop key. Nothing connected to Minerva should have remained active, but I still needed to resolve access legally and carefully. Clara reviewed the police move-out report and Billie's property receipt, then told me we had enough documentation to proceed with the lock change and a written confirmation that Minerva no longer lived there. I scheduled the locksmith for the next morning. It felt less dramatic than replacing every lock in anger at midnight, and considerably safer.
At nine that evening, there were three hard knocks at the front door. I checked the camera. Landon stood on my porch with two men I'd never seen before. One carried a measuring tape. The other kept looking toward the side yard. I knew before opening the camera microphone that the day wasn't finished with me.
"Can I help you?" I asked through the door camera. I was standing in the kitchen, where I could see the feed on my phone and still hear the dishwasher finishing its cycle.
Landon leaned toward the camera as though he wanted to enter the screen. "We're here for Minerva's furniture. She says you're holding it hostage. Open the door."
"Her sister collected her remaining belongings yesterday. I have a signed receipt. If she believes something is missing, she can send a list through my attorney."
"Don't play games with me," he said. "The couch, the television, the espresso machine. She says they're hers."
The couch had belonged to me before I met Minerva. The television was a graduation gift from my sister. The espresso machine was a birthday purchase I made for myself after spending two years drinking terrible office coffee. I had receipts for all three, not because I had been planning to argue with a man named Landon someday, but because I kept paperwork for expensive items. My father had taught me that the time to find a receipt was when you bought something, not when somebody demanded proof you owned it.
"They're not hers," I said. "Please leave."
One of Landon's friends stepped closer to him. He looked uncomfortable. "Hey, maybe we should just talk to her and figure out exactly what she wants."
Landon ignored him. "Patrick, I am not asking again. Open the door."
"I'm not opening it. I've asked you to leave. If you keep trying to enter, I'll contact the police."
He took a step back, glanced at the two men behind him, and spread his arms in a theatrical gesture that probably looked intimidating in his imagination. "See? This is what Minerva was talking about. The guy can't even have a normal conversation."