Maggie wasn’t sure how she got home again. She wasn’t sure how long it took. She wasn’t sure of much anymore, but somehow the day went from a blinding kind of grey to a crisp and bitter nighttime, and she found herself turning the corner to face the home she’d never quite call home again. There was a pounding up ahead, just like before, and she imagined it was Liam again, this time to tell her there’d been a mistake, and Rían was fine, and everything was fine, and—
It was Mrs McKenzie, the landlady, hammering a paper to her door. The wiry little woman with the frazzled hair pounded three more times, like she was finishing off the door out of spite. Bang, bang, bang! She noticed Maggie’s approach and stowed her weapon. Her face said everything that needed to be said—but she said the words anyway:
“You’re out.” Then, after a moment of reflection, clarified: “Evicted. Effective now.” She opened the door to let Maggie enter. “Get your things and be gone with ye.”
Maggie didn’t move, didn’t quite process what was happening, fully. “I’m… what?”
“Listen, dearie,” said Mrs McKenzie, eyes narrowing like she was trying to decide if she was dealing with trauma or deceit. “The maths are simple: no husband, no money, no rent, no home.”
“But we’ve paid until the—”