Eric finally stood. “Lena, just calm down—”
I stared at him. “You gave her my card?”
“It was for emergencies,” he muttered.
Diane slammed her mug down. “Don’t act like I’m stealing from some saint. You have money. I want five thousand, and I want it by Friday.”
“No.”
Her expression hardened instantly. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
The silence barely lasted a second.
Then she grabbed the mug and hurled the hot coffee straight at my face.
The pain was immediate—scalding, blinding, shocking enough to force a cry out of me before I could stop it. Coffee splashed across my cheek, neck, collarbone, and blouse. The mug shattered against the tile near my feet. I staggered back into the counter, one hand clutching my skin, tears streaming from pain and disbelief.
Eric shouted, “Mom!”
Diane stood there breathing hard, still furious, as if I had done something to her.
I looked at both of them through burning eyes. “I’ll never forgive you,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re going to regret this.”
Then I grabbed my purse, my keys, and the folder from the office drawer Eric had never once asked about—the house deed, in my name alone—and I walked out.
At 6:12 the next morning, Diane woke to loud pounding on the front door.
When she opened it, two police officers were standing there.
