Vincent had offered to send staff. A driver. Security. A hotel suite.
Lenora refused all of it except Mr. Wilson, who waited discreetly in the hallway.
She needed to stand inside the life she was leaving.
The apartment looked smaller than it had that morning. The beige couch where she had slept after arguments. The kitchen table where she had folded bills and written grocery lists while Darnell complained about her “poverty habits.” The cabinet where Beverly had thrown away Ruth’s chipped mixing bowl because it was “ugly.” The bedroom closet where Lenora owned two dresses, three pairs of shoes, and a row of cardigans Darnell said made her look like a school librarian.
She packed slowly.
Not everything.
Only what was hers.
A framed photo of Thomas and Ruth. Her nursing license. A shoebox of birthday cards from former patients. The old Bible Ruth had written in. A sweater that still smelled faintly of cedar from her grandparents’ house. The letters from the safety deposit box.
