“Break-in?”
“No.”
He waited.
“Marriage.”
He nodded with the immediate understanding of a man who had apparently heard enough explanations during his career.
I showed identification and proof that I owned the property.
He rekeyed the exterior locks.
At the time, it felt logical.
That does not mean it was legally smart.
I would learn that distinction soon enough.
I stood in the kitchen drinking coffee while he worked.
My anger had burned down into something colder.
Lauren had ordered me out.
Now I was making sure she could not simply reverse the decision whenever she felt the lesson had lasted long enough.
The locksmith handed me the new keys.
I paid him.
Locked up.
Went to work.
At 5:47 that evening, Lauren called.
I let it ring twice.
“Hey.”
“What the hell is going on?”
No hello.
Straight to business.
“What do you mean?”
“My key doesn’t work.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“Eric.”
“What?”
“Did you change the locks?”
I paused.
“Why would I know what’s happening at your house?”
Silence.
“What?”
“You told me I don’t live there.”
“Stop screwing around.”
“I’m trying to follow instructions.”
“My key does not work.”
“That sounds like something you should discuss with the homeowner.”
Another silence.
Then, very slowly:
“You are the homeowner.”