Nothing from Eleanor ever came without purpose.She did not call to comfort. She did not call to grieve. She called to control the story.
I let the phone ring once more, took a slow sip of coffee, and answered in the calmest voice I had.
“Hello, Eleanor.”
“I’ve sold the house.”
No attempt to sound human.
Her voice was polished and smug, the way it always became when she believed she had won.
“The papers are signed. The new owners move in next week. I hope you’ve learned something about respecting your elders, Harper.”
For three seconds, I said nothing.
My name is Harper Sterling, and the house Eleanor was talking about was my childhood home.
It was a sprawling Victorian-craftsman house with a wraparound porch, a stained-glass window on the landing, an upstairs claw-foot tub, and an old back staircase my father, Arthur, always said was the soul of the place.
