I managed to weave a path through the clutter to find Charlotte in the back hallway, yelling at someone in Buckley’s bedroom not to “linger on the panties. Don’t think I didn’t see you.” “Movers are all ex-felons,” she muttered. I was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but Charlotte needed something to yell about today. Jack had been sentenced two weeks ago, and she was already breaking down his home. “Not wasting any time, are you?” Seeing Charlotte in the midst of open boxes and Styrofoam peanuts reminded me of the day she came to our apartment to pack Jack’s things. “If it were up to me, I’d pay the maintenance for the next twenty-five years. But Buckley’s therapist says it’s for the best. As long as she’s running back and forth between here and my place, she’ll keep telling herself it’s temporary. Sounds like a crock of shit to me, but for once, I’m doing as told.” Charlotte’s voice mail summoning me to the apartment hadn’t explained the timing of the move.
