I Took Back Everything They Called “Ours”

still had beige carpet from 2006.

Mrs. Pruitt cleared her throat. “There’s another thing.”

Of course there was.

“Your father called a locksmith.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because he thinks you made copies of the key. Which, between us, if you’re going to become a criminal mastermind over a recliner and a Keurig, he should’ve noticed sooner.”

Despite myself, I continue reading …