I scroll the listings. I’ve never been much of an online shopper, preferring the tangible sensation of lifting and holding items before I buy them, not to mention that it’s harder to hide packages that could arrive at any time than it is to stash things I bought in person. Even so, I’m getting a little boost, just a little one, from imagining adding something to my shopping cart.

As I’m scrolling through the listings, one catches my eye. It’s a set of pendant lamps. Amber glass pineapples. “Mid-Century Modern! Mint condition!” The price isn’t the only thing that staggers me.

Those are my grandmother’s lamps.

CHAPTER
23

“YOU FUCKING LIAR,” I say to Christian before he can get a word out of his mouth. “You sold my stuff!”

“Hi, Jewelann,” calls a familiar female voice from inside the carriage house.

I push past him. Beth sprawls on a new couch that wasn’t there earlier this afternoon. Her eyes are bright but glazed. She’s not quite slurring her words, but neither is she speaking with crystal clarity. She waves the tips of her fingers in my direction.

“You sold it,” I repeat, not shouting this time.

Christian’s expression is one I remember so well. The dishonest one, the one that shows how clever he thinks he is. Well, he’s not.

“I know,” I tell him. “I saw them listed online.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jewelann.”

“Want a drinky drink?” Beth sits up, then falls back against the cushions. “Ooooh. Mmmm. Christian, get Jewelann a drink.”

I turn toward her. My question comes out the opposite of subtle. “Does your husband know you’re here?”

“Does yours?” She sits up straight, or tries to. “C’mon. Have a drink.”

She’s stoned. I don’t smell weed, but that doesn’t mean anything. Could be edibles, could be pills. Whatever it is, Beth’s deep in it. Her lipstick is smeared. Her hair is mussed. The top button of her blouse dangles by the thread. The longer I look at her, the more details stand out. The longer I look, the angrier I get.

“I don’t want a drink.”

He leans close enough to brush his nose against my neck. “Smells like you’ve already had one.”

I step away, out of his reach. “I want the money you got for my stuff. Plus the rent.”

“Nothing has actually sold yet, okay?”

The fact he’s no longer denying it is no comfort. I close my eyes, tears burning behind the lids. I keep myself standing straight, facing away from Beth so I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“I want you to take down the listings. And get me the rent. No … no, keep them up,” I say, hating it but thinking of the possible cash. “Give me the money when anything sells.”

When I open my eyes, Christian is studying me closely. He nods and takes a step backward, toward the kitchen. He rummages in a drawer set into the island separating the kitchen from the living room, then holds up a checkbook in a blue vinyl cover. “Okay. Sure. The check doesn’t have my address on it, I hope that’s okay?”