Harrison's voice cracked.
"I'll pay it back. Every cent. Mom. Please. Don't — don't do anything crazy."
"I have frozen the account," I said. "I have moved what was left. There will be no further withdrawals. As for paying it back — yes. You will. We will put it in writing. We will set a schedule. And until the debt is acknowledged and begun, you and Sloan will find somewhere else to rehearse your life."
Sloan laughed, high and disbelieving.
"You're kicking us out? Over money? Over a stupid bag and a cake?"
"I am asking my adult son and his wife to leave the home they have treated like a complimentary suite," I said. "The cake was a symptom. The bag was an answer. The eighteen thousand dollars is the diagnosis. Pack your things. You have until Sunday."
Friday and Saturday became a slow dismantling of a year.