“You and Adrian can rent somewhere smaller,” he said. “A young married couple does not need two bedrooms.” Several relatives nodded as though he had offered a perfectly reasonable solution.

Three months later.

The summer sun washed over the gardens of the Pacific Heights villa, but the gate was not open for an exclusive charity gala or a political fundraiser.

It was open to the public for a court-ordered foreclosure auction.

A large crowd of Bay Area socialites, real estate developers, and bargain hunters milled about the stone courtyard, flipping through auction catalogs. Everything inside the villa—from Eleanor’s prized antique furniture to Charles’s collection of rare wines—was being liquidated to pay off Vance Development’s creditors and victim restitution funds.

I walked through the double doors of the dining room where my life had almost ended.

The heavy mahogany table was gone, replaced by small yellow lot tags attached to the remaining chairs. The red wine stains on the floorboards had been sanded down, but in my mind, the memory was clear as crystal.

In the corner of the room stood Eleanor Vance.

She was wearing a faded wool coat that looked ten years old. Her hair was unstyled, and her hands were devoid of the heavy diamond rings she used to wear like armor. She was arguing desperately with the auctioneer’s assistant.

"You cannot put lot 142 up for sale!" Eleanor cried, her voice thin and raspy. "That dining set belonged to my grandmother! It is an heirloom!"

"Ma'am, every asset in this house is subject to the federal asset forfeiture order," the assistant said flatly, turning away to speak to a buyer.

Eleanor turned around and saw me.

Her face flushed with a sudden, ugly rage. She marched toward me, her heels clicking weakly on the bare floorboards.

"You!" she spat, pointing a trembling finger at my face. "You evil, vengeful girl! You destroyed my family! You put my husband in prison! You put my son in a cell! Look at what you've done to me!"

I stood my ground, my hands folded comfortably in the pockets of my cream-colored silk trousers.

"I didn't destroy your family, Eleanor," I said softly. "Your greed did. You spent twenty years treating people like stepping stones, assuming no one would ever have the strength to push back."

"I am an old woman!" Eleanor sobbed, dropping her hands to her sides, trying to summon the performative pity she had used at the dinner table months ago. "I have nowhere to go! My sister won't take me in! They're taking my home!"

"You own three homes, Eleanor," I reminded her, echoing the exact words I had spoken to her at the dining table before Adrian struck me. "Or rather... you used to. Today, the bankruptcy court finalized the sale of your Palm Springs estate. The proceeds are paying for Maya’s new housing foundation for survivors of domestic abuse."

Eleanor blinked, her jaw dropping open in total disbelief. "You... you gave my house to Maya?"

"Maya earned it," I said. "And as for you..." I pulled a small business card from my pocket and set it on the window ledge beside her. "...I took the liberty of finding you a modest one-bedroom apartment outside Oakland. The rent is twelve hundred dollars a month. It doesn't have antique furniture or floor-to-ceiling windows, but it is safe."

Eleanor stared at the card as if it were a poisonous viper. "You... you expect me to live in Oakland?"