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 smiled, tired and faintly amused.

“Enough.”

He died two days later.

Now, standing in our half-ransacked condo with his relatives pawing through his life, I finally understood exactly 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 under the paper clips.

“You should probably put those suitcases down,” I said.

Marjorie let out a sharp laugh. “Or what?”

There was a knock at the door.

I crossed the room, past the urn and the funeral flowers, and opened it.

Elena Cruz stood there in a navy suit, rain damp on her shoulders. Beside her was Luis Ortega, the building manager, holding a clipboard. Next to him stood Deputy Collins from St. Johns County, broad-shouldered and already wearing that dry, professional expression that says other people’s entitlement has become paperwork.

Elena held a black folder under one arm.

“Mrs. Hale,” she said.

Marjorie appeared behind me. “Who is this?”