Derek invites us in. The living room looks much the same as it did when I came by earlier in the week for the removal—everything in its place, neat and clean, as if ripped from the pages of a home furnishings catalog. Then I notice a couple large cardboard boxes on the floor by the sofa, and the guitar case leaning against the wall. “I see you already started going through everything,” I say, nodding at the boxes. “It’ll probably take some time.”
With a frown, Derek shrugs. “I haven’t done much of anything yet.”
“I sort of thought you’d have the lawyer set up an estate sale or something,” I say. “I didn’t know your mother had a guitar.”
“What? No, that’s mine.”
“And you brought it to your mother’s funeral? Riley, don’t,” I warn as she reaches for the guitar case. She pouts at me, one h
