He tried the key.
The lock did not turn.
He tried again harder, then looked back at Brooke. She marched up the steps, snatched the key from his hand, and shoved it into the lock herself. The new deadbolt held perfectly.
From inside, I heard the faint rattle.
Then my phone rang.
I let it go to voicemail.
Brooke called again, then my mother, then my father. Finally, Brooke pounded on the door with the side of her fist.
“Jenna, open the door,” she shouted. “The movers are here.”
I opened the door only as far as the security chain allowed, though I had already changed that too.
Brooke stared at me through the gap. “Why doesn’t the key work?”
“Because it was never your key.”
My mother pushed closer behind her. “Jenna, this is humiliating. The neighbors are watching.”
“They should,” I said. “It might stop you from lying about why you’re here.”
My father stepped onto the porch, red-faced and angry. “Enough. Your sister gave notice at her apartment because you said she could come.”
“I never said that.”
Brooke threw her hands up. “You didn’t exactly say no!”
“I said you’re not moving in.”
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