Nora's silence lasted long enough for me to hear her breathing change. She had never loved Tessa quite the way I had. She'd been kind and welcoming, but there were things she'd found difficult to explain: how often Tessa volunteered to speak for me, how gently she dismissed my attachment to the workshop, how she described my father's collection as an opportunity whenever Nora described it as family history.
"You warned me about her," I said.
"This isn't the time for that."
"I know."
"We're getting Dad's things back," she said. "Whatever it takes to do it properly, we're getting them back."
A patrol car turned the corner in the distance. Nora saw it first and told me she was waving from the sidewalk. I stayed on the phone while the officers approached, heard her give the address and explain what she had witnessed, then let her hand the call to one of them. I confirmed ownership details and agreed to provide proof as soon as possible. They said the loading operation would be examined and nobody should move anything while they established what the paperwork authorized.
For the first time since Adrian's message, I could breathe without feeling as though something had tightened around my chest. That did not mean I was safe or that the property was safe. It meant a door had opened in the wall of panic around me: there were witnesses, records, and officers on scene. Tessa no longer controlled the only version of events.
I got the key to my new room. I rode the elevator alone, walked down a quiet carpeted corridor, and entered a space that smelled faintly of new paint and laundry detergent. Only then did I sit on the bed and look at the clock. It was 12:47 a.m.
Less than an hour earlier, I'd believed the worst thing happening to me was that my girlfriend had stopped loving me. Now I knew she'd planned something far more intimate than an affair. She'd used the person I trusted most to lead me away from the place where the last traces of my father lived.
I thought of how she'd insisted on the trip. How she'd rejected the dates I suggested and demanded that we leave on Thursday afternoon. How she'd chosen Chicago even though I had said we could celebrate somewhere closer to home. How she'd joked, as we locked our apartment door, that I should enjoy being unreachable for once. It hadn't been spontaneous romance. It had been scheduling.
Then my phone lit up again. This time the message came from Tessa.
Where are you? We need to talk. You can't just walk out after four years.
I read it without answering. A second message appeared.
Are you with someone? Is this why you're so calm?