Emily stood beside me, one hand on her belly, the other holding the blue notebook. Her face was pale, but she did not look away.
“No,” she said. “He’s asking you to leave because this is our home.”
The room went still.
It was the first time I had heard Emily say it that way in front of them.
Our home.
My mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve gotten bold.”
Emily’s hand trembled, but her voice held. “I’ve gotten tired.”
Mr. Alvarez looked at the pizza boxes, the stained napkins, the dishes stacked in the sink. His mouth tightened, though he said nothing.
I went room by room. In the nursery, the crib stood half assembled, one side rail still leaning against the wall. The closet door was open.
Several shelves were empty.
I turned around. “Where are the gifts?”
My mother appeared behind me. “What gifts?”
“The diapers. The clothes. The blanket. The gift cards.”
Brittany looked at Kayla.
A small glance. Quick. Guilty.
I caught it.
“Brittany,” I said.
She scoffed. “Why are you saying my name like that?”
“Because you know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Kayla shifted her weight.
Emily stepped beside me and opened the notebook to a marked page. “Your mom said she was taking two boxes to sort them. Brittany carried one. Kayla carried the other.”
My mother gave a weary sigh. “I moved them so they wouldn’t clutter this tiny room. You should be thanking me.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
“At my place.”
“All of them?”
Her face flickered.
There it was.
Not enough for a confession. Enough for truth.
I held out my hand. “Keys.”
“To what?”
“To our apartment.”
“I don’t have—”