Chapter 7 - THE GHOSTS OF MILLER HOUSE
The auction banner went up on Saturday morning.
It was a bright, crisp autumn day, the kind of weather that made people want to walk through parks or sit on patios drinking spiced cider. Instead, a cluster of curious neighbors, local real estate speculators, and county bailiffs stood on the manicured front lawn of 442 Elmwood Avenue, watching as the auctioneer’s wooden gavel rose and fell with the rhythmic finality of a heartbeat.
Sold.
Sold.
Sold.
The heavy blue vase on the mantel—the one I had bought with my very first freelance paycheck—was knocked down to an antique dealer from the city for eighty-five dollars. The leather sofa where Madison used to record her morning makeup tutorials went to a college student for forty.
By noon, the house was entirely gutted.
Inside the master bedroom, the walk-in closet was bare except for a single wire hanger swinging gently in the draft from the open window.
I stood by the window, looking out over the overgrown rosebushes Catherine had never quite found the time to prune. My luggage—two heavy, slate-gray Rimowa suitcases—was lined up neatly by the front door downstairs. A black town car was idling at the curb, its engine purring with quiet, understated power.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a notification from the county detention center commissary deposit I had authorized that morning.
A standard procedure for inmates undergoing long-term pre-trial detention. Ten dollars for instant coffee. Five dollars for writing paper. A tiny, insignificant drop of charity from an account that now held millions.
May you like
I unlocked the screen, tapped out a single reply to the prison intake clerk’s automated receipt, and hit send.
Memo: For stamps and envelopes. Use them to write to your sister.
