David called me privately after the deputies left.
“The notice has been delivered,” he said. “I sat down with your parents at the kitchen table afterward. They’ve agreed in writing to leave the house by January 15th. That gives them seven weeks, and they won’t have to move in the middle of a snowstorm. I drafted a simple surrender agreement, and they both signed it. If they leave by that date and leave the house in good condition, the company won’t pursue them for anything else under the lease.”
“And Natalie and Terrence?”
“They’re not on the lease. They have no right to stay there. They left tonight. They’re staying at a hotel in White Plains.”
“And the listing authorization?”
“Separate matter. I’ll file a report with the police and send copies to the district attorney’s office tomorrow. I’ll also send a letter to the broker formally confirming the document was not authorized. Nothing was ever recorded against the property. Your title is clean.” He paused. “Nicole, are you and Leo all right?”
“He’s asleep.”
“And you?”
I looked out the hotel window. Manhattan glowed under the storm, millions of lights in millions of windows.
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
There was another envelope in David’s folder that night. I knew because I’d asked him to prepare it several weeks earlier.
He didn’t mention it. I was grateful.
The next morning, Leo woke up before sunrise and asked for pancakes. We went down to the hotel restaurant and sat at a table by the window. He ate a stack of blueberry pancakes the size of his head while a man at the next table read the newspaper and pretended not to notice how often I checked my phone.
