I stepped out of the car, and stared at the house. Once, it had been painted a bright yellow and kept in top shape. Now, the paint was flaking, and the roof was in need of repair. I shook off the bitterness that filled me. You had no choice but selling it to cover the back taxes, I reminded myself. I opened the car door, and stepped outside.
Solange looked around and shook her head.
“ What a dump,” she murmurred.
Irritation flared, but I squashed it. She was right, the house was a dump. I opened the gate, and hid a wince when the paint left a grey trace. I rubbed it against my thigh, and swallowed a growl when it stubbornly clung to my palm.