Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“I used the paper you signed before you shipped out to Okinawa,” he said, his eyes still avoiding mine. “The power of attorney. I sold the property.”
My chest tightened, but I kept my breathing even, the way they train you to handle a sudden drop in cabin pressure.
“You did not have my permission to sell,” I said.
“We needed the cash,” he said, his knuckles turning red under his grip. “We did what had to be done.”
The sound of a car door clicking shut behind us cut through the humid air.
Chad walked up the concrete path, his boots dragging against the sand on the walkway.
He was thirty-eight, but he walked with the loose, careless posture of someone who had never had to answer to a commanding officer.
He was flipping his silver lighter, the metal cap clicking open and shut in a steady, irritating rhythm.
“We sold your house, sis, so try to keep up with current events,” Chad said, his voice a slow, mocking drawl.
