I walk into my apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. The pictures on my wall rattle and I revel at the feel of my floors vibrating beneath my feet. It’s small, but it’s something. Getting any of my anger out, feeling the release I’ve spent months and months denying myself, helps ease some of the resentment starting to bubble over.

I think about calling my mom, asking for her advice, but I shut down that idea almost as soon as it comes. Every time I talk to my mom, there’s a sense of hesitation in her voice. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to finally snap. I’ve worked for months to convince her I’m okay and she’s safe to settle into her life in Tennessee. If I called her now, I’d have a permanent guest in my one-bedroom apartment and neither of us want that.

I drop my purse on the rug leading into my apartment, not bothering with the hooks where I usually hang it. I pass my couch, ignoring my TV, which is currently housing two unwatched episodes of Housewives, and march into my bedroom. I throw the shoes scattered around my closet haphazardly over my shoulder until I get to what I’m looking for.

I yank the box I shoved in the back corner months ago out of the dark. I hope I’m not opening Pandora’s box, but I don’t think it’s possible for things to get worse.

I dump the contents across the emerald-green down comforter I splurged on a year ago. Pictures and papers fly across my bed, the rosary Gran kept hanging on her bedroom mirror scatters to the floor, but no answers come spilling out.

I toe off my Birkenstocks and climb onto my bed, desperate to make sense of something I have no control over. Hoping Gran didn’t throw me to the wolves without leaving me with any clues about how to navigate it.

I keep thinking back to the sympathetic look on Connor’s face as he recalled the meetings he had with Gran. How she sought him out, not the other way around. How she expressed her desire to sell the Book Nook but wanted to make sure that if she did, her family would be well taken care of. Apparently that’s why he took my dad’s calls at first. He didn’t realize my dad wasn’t the family she was talking about in those meetings.

I don’t know what to believe, but a part of me that I want to ignore is screaming that Connor is telling the truth. I called the lawyer in charge of Gran’s will, hoping he had something I may have overlooked in the pandemonium following the reading of her will. Of course, because my luck is what it is, he’s on vacation and won’t be back for another week.