I started sleeping with the lamp on, not because I believed in ghosts, but because I believed in people who thought they deserved what wasn’t theirs. Michael’s sisters arrived with their casserole and condolences, but the manila folder in Colleen’s hand weighed more than the dish. While they circled my kitchen, measuring the cabinets with their eyes, I saw it: the way Rhonda’s gaze snagged on the garage door, the way her jaw tightened at Michael’s name on the deed. That night, the whispers began in the drywall, the garage door stuttered awake and shut like a trapped breath, and my husband’s voice threaded through the dark, calling me from everywhere and nowhere. Daniel’s cameras caught what my shaking hands couldn’t: sisters moving like burglars through the bones of my life, hunting for a fortune they were certain glint… Continues…
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