Chapter 11: The Table Turns
"Everything I did," Sloan said, "I did for us."
"You filed a legal claim on my mother's house without telling me."
"I was protecting our future."
"It's not our house."
"It could have been." She leaned forward.
"Harrison.
Think about what we've been living with.
The rules.
The locked doors.
The cardboard box outside our room like we were being evicted from a hotel.
Your mother has been trying to push us out since the day we arrived."
"My mother let us live here for free for a year."
"While making us feel like guests who'd overstayed." Her voice was controlled, persuasive, the voice she used when she wanted to sound reasonable.
"I was trying to secure something real.
Something that couldn't be taken away."
"By stealing from her."
"By accessing money that was sitting unused while we struggled—"
"Stop." Harrison's voice was quiet.
That was worse than if he'd shouted.
"I've heard every version of this.
I've let you reframe it every time.
I'm not doing that anymore."
Sloan looked at him.
Then she shifted.
"Your mother has turned you against me," she said.
"That's what this is.
She has never accepted me.
She has never wanted this marriage to work.
Everything she's done—"
"She dropped your bag in the fire pit," Harrison said.
"After you destroyed her birthday cake on purpose.
In front of her friends.
On her sixty-fifth birthday." He paused.
"I watched you do it.
I told myself it was an accident.
I knew it wasn't."
Sloan sat back.
"There's a video," I said.
Her eyes moved to me.
"My neighbor filmed the party.
The angle is very clear." I kept my voice even.
"Patricia Vance has it.
So does Gerald Foss.
So do I."
"That video doesn't show—"
"It shows everything," Harrison said.
He wasn't looking at her anymore.
He was looking at the table.
"I don't need the video.
I was standing there."
The kitchen was very quiet.
Sloan changed direction.
I watched her do it — a visible pivot, like a ship adjusting course.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay.
I went too far.
I know that.
I've been under enormous pressure and I made mistakes.
But Harrison — we can fix this.
We can pay back the money.
We can withdraw the claim.
We can start over." She reached across the table toward his hand.
"We can go to counseling.
We can—"
"Where did the forty-two thousand dollars go?" Harrison asked.
"The money you took from Curtis Farwell."
Her hand stopped.
"That was a long time ago."
"Where did it go, Sloan?"
"It doesn't matter—"
"It matters to me." He finally looked at her.
"Because I need to know if there's a version of you that I actually know.
Or if everything has been—" He stopped.
"I need to know if any of it was real."
Something moved across her face.
For just a moment — one unguarded second — something that might have been genuine crossed her features.
Then it was gone.
"Some of it was real," she said.
And the way she said it — not *all of it*, not *of course it was* — told him everything.
He nodded once.
Slowly.
"I want you to leave," he said.
"Today.
I'll help you pack."
"You can't—"
"This is my mother's house.
You have no legal right to be here and your claim is going to be withdrawn.
Patricia Vance's letter arrived this morning." He stood.
"I'll give you two hours."
Sloan stood too.
She looked at him for a long moment, and I think she was calculating — whether to fight, whether to cry, whether to threaten.
I watched her cycle through the options.
"You'll regret this," she said finally.
"Maybe," Harrison said.
"But I'll regret it as myself."
She walked out of the kitchen.
Her footsteps went up the stairs, fast and hard.
Harrison stood at the table with his hands in his pockets, looking at the folder.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
Not to me specifically.
To the room.
To his father's house.
"I know," I said.
"I'll pay back every dollar.
I'll work out a plan with Patricia.
Whatever she needs."
"I know that too."
He looked up.
"Are we going to be okay?"
I thought about Brenda's words.
*That doesn't mean forever.*
"Not today," I said honestly.
"But I think yes.
Eventually."
He nodded.
May you like
That was enough for now.
Upstairs, drawers were slamming.
