“Mrs.
Whitaker!”
Julian purred, adjusting his lapels:
“Your lease has expired.
The moving truck was logged leaving the driveway an hour ago.
Under emergency order nine-fourteen, this property has reverted to Vance Global Infrastructure.”
Then, Julian’s eyes drifted toward the staircase.
He saw me.
He saw Carly.
The woman who had cleaned his family’s silver, the woman who had walked away from their divorce court without alimony, wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a simple cotton blouse.
A slow, vicious, triumphant sneer spread across Julian’s face:
“Well, well, well,” Julian laughed, shaking his head:
“Carly Evans.
The cleaning lady.”
“Did Margaret hire you to vacuum the dust after the movers left, Carly?
How appropriate.
Nine years later, and you’re still picking up scraps from people who actually own things.”
