Connie is in the back of the walk-in closet in the spare bedroom when she hears the dull echo of the back door forced open and then quietly click closed. There is only one other person who knows the lock is faulty and that even though the knob does not turn one can gain entry with a strong shoulder or kick. Connie listens to the familiar footfall of her only child, now a woman, as she pads up the stairs. As usual she is taking them two at a time.
Meg moves with purpose not considering her mother is home while a friend borrows the car.
Connie knows she won’t come back here but she melts in between the winter coats she should have purged and holds her breath as trembling junky hands rifle through gold and pearls.
8 min on 4.3.13; quote overheard in midtown Toronto
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