“In my bathroom.”
“Emily—”
“No. I want to understand this.”
I pointed past Michael.
“You’re inside my condo wearing my clothes while my belongings are in the hallway, and you’re telling me your son needed space?”
Linda’s mouth tightened.
“You have always made him feel like a guest here.”
I faced Michael.
“Do you feel like a guest?”
“You pay half the utilities.”
“I pay more than that.”
“You pay utilities and groceries.”
“I bought furniture.”
“You bought the television.”
“I paid for the dining table.”
“My parents gave us the dining table.”
“I maintain this place.”
My eyes moved deliberately toward the lock.
“Well, apparently you renovated the front door.”
Linda snapped, “Don’t be sarcastic.”
“You’re wearing my bathrobe after helping your son throw my belongings into a hallway.”
“I didn’t help him.”
Michael faced her. I filed that away. Michael stepped closer.
