After my husband’s funeral, I returned home with my black dress still clinging to my skin. I opened the door… and found my mother-in-law and eight family members packing suitcases as if it were a hotel.

He looked at me with that tired, knowing smile.

‘Enough.’

He died two days later.

Now, standing in our condo with Marjorie Hale stepping over funeral flowers, I finally understood what enough meant.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Elena: We’re downstairs.

I looked at Marjorie.

At Declan.

At Fiona still hovering near Bradley’s desk as if something valuable might be hidden beneath the paper clips.

‘You should probably put those suitcases down,’ I said.

Marjorie let out a sharp, impatient laugh.

‘Or what?’

There was a knock at the door.

I walked back through the entryway, past the urn, and opened it.

Elena Cruz stood there in a navy suit, rain dampening her shoulders.