Page 83 of Possessive Ink

While she packs, I continue to build the boxes until the bed is covered three deep in cardboard. “Show me what you want in each box, and I’ll start packing.”

“Could you put my books and sketchpads in one?” she says, pointing to a bookcase I didn’t notice the last time I was here.

“Of course,” I say, taking a box from the pile and carrying it over to the bookcase. Starting at the bottom, I carefully stack the books in the box, checking the weight every now and then to make sure the tape isn’t going to give way. It takes two boxes to fit all of her books, and I seal each one as I go, placing it in the living space despite Lemon’s protests that we not put anything outside of her room.

When I start to pack her piles and piles of sketchbooks, I can’t help but open the top one. I’m not sure what I expected, but what I find are beautifully detailed sketches of dresses with swatches of fabric stapled to the pages.

“Princess, these are amazing.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says, waving my praise away.

“How many of these have you made?”

“Not many. The sketches are the easy part. Designing the pattern and actually sewing the fabric is much harder.”

“You need to be selling these. They’re incredible,” I tell her.

Blushing, she waves off my compliment and turns back to her packing, but I refuse to pretend I’m not aware of her talent. Making another mental reminder, I plan to check out community college classes for her and see what she’ll need to start making more of her dresses.

We pack in companionable silence for an hour, working from one side of her room to the other, packing all of her things into boxes. Her belongings are a mix of practical and completely impractical things—sewing equipment beside random ornaments next to hair bows and sparkly jewelry. We’d filled almost all the boxes when a shriek pierced the calm air.

“We’re being robbed. Cops, help! Someone call the cops!” Avery screams, her voice shrill and frantic.

“Oh god,” Lemon sighs, dropping the hair accessories in her hands into the box on the bed and heading to the door.

“I’ll handle her,” I tell her, catching her around the waist and spinning her back toward the bed.

“No, that’ll only set her off more.”

“I’d rather her ire be directed at me than you,” I remind her, opening the bedroom door and stepping out into the living space. “Hello again, Avery. It’s nice to see you. You’re not being robbed. Lemon is packing, and we’ve been stacking the boxes in your shared space before we carry them down to my car. You understand, of course.”

“What?” Avery screams. “I told you I won’t have drug dealers in my home. Get out, get out, get out.”

“Once again, I’m not a drug dealer, and this is Lemon’s home as well. Or at least it is until we’ve gotten the rest of her belongings,” I say calmly, speaking to her like I would a child throwing a tantrum.

“Lemon, you can’t bring guests here. I’ll call the cops. I’m calling the cops!” she screams, her eyes unnaturally wide.

“Go ahead if that’s what you want to do. While you wait for them to arrive, we’ll carry on packing,” I inform her. Turning my back on her, I usher a cowed Lemon back into the bedroom, leaving the door open just in case she decides to do anything to the boxes of stuff in the living room.

“She’s calling the cops,” Lemon whispers.

“I know. But honestly, given the state of her pupils, she’s either on something or having a medical emergency, and either way, the cops coming is probably for the best,” I assure her in a low voice.

While Avery frantically tells the cops that there’s a drug dealer stealing things from her home, Lemon and I continue packing, filling the boxes until the only thing left to be packed is the clothes in her closet.

“I’m going to call Marcus and ask him to bring the suitcases. I had thought that we could come back later after we’ve taken the boxes home, but I’m worried she might do something to your belongings or bolt the door so you can’t get back in. I’d rather we just take everything now, so you can let the landlord know that you’ve moved out before she escalates any further. Then we can take pictures and videos of the apartment to prove that any damage she does happened after you’d already left.”

“I don’t think she’ll cause any damage. She’s fastidious about cleanliness and smells. She loses her mind if even a single dish is left dirty in the dishwasher.”

“What about her room?” I ask.

“I’ve never been inside, but she’s probably plastic-wrapped everything to keep it pristine.”

Chuckling, I press a kiss to her forehead and quickly dial Marcus’s number.

“Hello, Atticus,” he immediately answers.

“Hi, Marcus. I’m sorry for bothering you, but would you mind loading the big suitcases into the van and driving them over to Lemon’s place? Her roommate has lost it, and the cops are on the way. I’d planned to load the boxes into my car and come back later with the suitcases for her clothes, but I’m worried she’ll either do something to Lemon’s things or refuse to let us back in.”