With Merjem safely installed at Ironwood Pastures and Ahmad Nowzad firmly made aware that the law is not on his side, Erica turns her attention back to the business that bears her name in polished letters on the glass doors - Sinclair & Associates.
The morning passes in a blur of case notes, a strategy session that feels more like psychological warfare, and a deposition that leaves opposing counsel visibly rattled.
By noon, Erica is back in her office, a legal pad full of margin notes in front of her - and a far less pressing, but more personal task tugging at the edge of her mind.
She leans back in her chair, pencil resting lightly against her lower lip, and stares at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
The move.
Her apartment on West 72nd Street - sleek, minimal, quiet - has always been her sanctuary. But the house in Scarsdale… the one she grew up in, the one she watched fall quiet after her father’s funeral and her aunt’s decline… that house is whispering to her again.
And not with ghosts - with memory.
With purpose.
The renovation is complete, the paint has dried, the wallpaper hung.
Her father’s study - painstakingly restored from the preserved memory of a little girl watching him sharpen pencils, mark up maps and evening story time - now looks almost exactly as it once did.
The wallpaper, the carpet, the bookshelves, the furniture.
Still, most of her life - her suits, files, favorite mugs, the cats’ toys - is here, in the city.
And none of it is going to pack itself.
She opens her laptop and types in a quick query: “Top-rated moving companies NYC to Westchester.”
Twelve results.
Polished logos.
Promises of discretion, speed, white-glove service.
One name stands out: YOUR BEST MOVE.
Claire mentioned them last week. They have handled her parents’ move.
Efficient.
No-nonsense.
No broken vases.
Erica nods to herself.
Their phone number flashes in bold across the screen: 1-800-BESTMOVE.
She picks up her office phone and taps the digits.
Two rings.
Then:
“YOUR BEST MOVE, this is Laura, how can I help you today?”
The voice is young, cheerful - like cotton candy spun through earbuds.
“This is Erica Sinclair,” she says, crisp. “I need to arrange a move from West 72nd Street to Scarsdale.”
“Absolutely, Ms. Sinclair,” Laura replies without missing a beat. “We’d typically send one of our team out first to do a walk-through - assess volume, logistics, and so on. That visit’s completely free, of course. What time would work for you?”
Erica hesitates only for a breath. Her schedule requires a little work to rearrange - but this matters.
“As soon as possible,” she says. “Today, if you can.”
“Let me check,” Laura says brightly, her keyboard clicking in the background. “We’ve got an opening between four and six. Would that be alright?”
Erica’s gaze flicks toward her calendar. Court prep can wait. Her house is calling.
“I’ll make time.”
“Wonderful. 4 p.m. it is, then.”
“Thank you.”
She ends the call and sets the receiver back into its cradle with a soft click.
Letting strangers into her apartment doesn’t sit well with her.
It never has.
Her privacy is more fortress than preference - walls she built around herself after loss and betrayal.
But she let the contractors into her childhood home, so she figures she can let movers into the life she’s built since the debacle of her last relationship had ended.
She exhales once, then pulls her case notes back toward her.
One problem solved.
A dozen more still waiting.
But for the first time in weeks, the thought of home - not the place she escapes to, but the one she’s reclaiming - doesn’t feel like retreat.
It feels like motion.
She’s coming home.
###
At exactly 4:00 p.m., the doorbell chimes through Erica Sinclair’s apartment.
Spot and Tiger lift their heads from the sunny patch near the windowsill.
Ears flick.
Tails curl.
Strangers are rare in this space - at any time of the day.
The kittens slip off their perch and pad silently to the edge of the living room rug, watching intently as their human walks toward the front door.
Erica unlocks the deadbolt, the solid metallic click echoing slightly in the polished silence.
She opens the door.
On the threshold stands a young woman in a crisp navy polo with YOUR BEST MOVE embroidered above the breast pocket.
Her ponytail bobs slightly as she offers a professional smile and extends her hand.
“Ms. Sinclair? Laura Delbert. Thanks for making the time.”
Erica returns the handshake - firm, brief. “Come in, please.”
Laura steps inside, clipboard in hand, her eyes sweeping across the apartment’s clean lines, the muted tones, taking in the scent of lavender, wood, and leather.
She doesn’t try to hide the impression it leaves. “What a beautiful place.”
Spot and Tiger retreat halfway up the hallway to the kitchen, perching like twin gargoyles, their green eyes following the guest with suspicion and feline entitlement.
“I’ll walk you through,” Erica says simply.
Laura follows, jotting quick notes on her checklist as they move from room to room.
The entry hall.
The sleek kitchen.
The sparsely filled shelves.
The bedroom, restrained but not cold - soft light filtering through linen curtains, the bed tightly made.
“This is the couch that will need disassembling,” Erica says, gesturing toward the living room. “Same for the bed.”
Laura makes a note. “My team will bring all the tools and materials. They bubble-wrap everything. You don’t need to lift a finger.”
She does a few quick calculations, numbers whispering from her lips as she scribbles in her notebook.
Finally, she looks up.
“All told,” she says, tone light but confident, “we can have your entire apartment packed, moved, and reassembled within the same day. Including full disassembly and reassembly of any furniture, boxes for your personal items, and basic insurance - we’re looking at twelve hundred flat. You just need someone to let us in here, and then again at the Scarsdale address.”
Erica crosses her arms, gaze cool but thoughtful.
“And when can you do it?”
Laura smiles. “Soonest availability is the day after tomorrow. We’ll arrive at 9:00 in the morning and you’d be able to sleep in your own bed in Scarsdale in the evening.”
Erica nods once. “Deal.”
Laura flips to the final page of her clipboard, fills out the service contract, and turns the pad around. “Card details here, please… signature on the next line.”
Erica skims the fine print with trained eyes, checks the box for additional insurance, and signs with deliberate precision.
“Thank you for choosing YOUR BEST MOVE,” Laura says, tucking the contract neatly into a folder. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Spot sneezes delicately behind her as if to offer editorial comment.
“I hope not,” Erica replies, tone wry.
Laura steps back toward the door. “You receive a confirmation email this evening and a follow-up call tomorrow afternoon.”
Erica opens the door again and nods as Laura steps out.
Then the door closes with its familiar, final click.
Spot and Tiger emerge from the hallway, padding back into the living room.
Erica crouches, running her fingers through their soft fur.
“You’re going to love Scarsdale,” she murmurs, more to herself than them.
Erica exhales - long and slow.
Not exhaustion.
Not tension.
Something else.
Relief.
It’s really going to happen.
The move.
She’s coming home.
The word still feels foreign, but not uninvited.
Like something once lost that has finally started to circle back.
She stands in the middle of her apartment - this haven of sharp lines, clean scents, and intentional solitude - and lets her eyes travel over it.
Everything here has a place.
Every shadow has been lived with.
Every silence earned.
But there are things here that won’t go on the moving truck.
Things the movers can’t handle.
Things they shouldn’t even see.
She walks quietly toward the bedroom.
Under the bed: the plastic bin, sealed and nondescript, but inside - cotton rope, cold metal handcuffs and silk.
The tools of a private ritual she hasn’t felt the need to perform in a long while, but nonetheless a quiet release no one knows about.
It doesn’t shame her, but it’s not for display.
It never has been.
Next to the bin: the shoebox of family heirlooms. Photos - sepia-toned, curled at the edges. Ancestors back to the Civil War.
Her father’s green beret, his medals carefully wrapped in tissue.
The wedding rings that once belonged to Owen and Luisa Sinclair.
Pieces of blood and memory.
She opens the walk-in closet and lifts down a folder from the top shelf - her personal documents.
Birth certificate.
Social Security card.
Passport.
Letters she never rereads.
She tucks it aside carefully.
From the cabinet in the living room, she retrieves the silver picture frame holding the photo showing her, as a toddler, between her parents.
She smiles as she looks at her mother’s soft, oval face and her father’s square-jawed calm, brushing a thumb gently across the glass.
Finally, she turns toward the couch where Spot and Tiger sprawl in warm disinterest on the armrest.
The food bowls on their little feeding mat are half-full, their world still undisturbed by tape and boxes.
She crouches beside them, the fine wool of her blazer creasing softly as she does.
Both cats look up, curious, their ears swiveling.
Scratching the tabbies between their ears, she leans in and whispers, voice low and warm.
“You’re going to go on a huge adventure, my lovelies.”
Spot purrs, leaning into her palm.
“We’re going home.”
Her voice catches, but only slightly.
Then - her phone buzzes.
A long vibration.
Insistent.
Not casual.
Erica rises slowly, her spine straightening.
Normalcy never lingers long.
Her phone buzzes again, screen glowing.
Holly Beck.
~~~
