That afternoon, Russell sent me on an errand.
“Go look at the house,” he said. “Don’t go inside. Don’t talk to anybody. Just take pictures of the sign. The lockbox. Anything you see. We need to know who the listing agent is and how far along the sale is.”
So that’s how I ended up in the front yard on Brand Road on my nineteenth day of freedom.
I took the bus to Dublin. I walked six blocks from the stop. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the house I’d bought with my father’s money and took pictures with the cheap prepaid phone Opal had bought me.
The sign. The lockbox on the front door. A little paper flyer in a plastic box on the post. 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, $649,000. Pending.
Pending.
That meant somebody had already made an offer. That meant a closing date was coming.
I was taking a picture of the flyer when Monica’s white Lexus pulled into the driveway.
She must have been tracking me. Or maybe the man in the gray sedan called her.
She got out. She walked across the lawn. She threw that envelope full of money at my feet.
And she said, “If you mention my name again, I promise you’ll be going straight back to prison.”
After she drove away, I stood there in the yard and looked down at that envelope.
Then I took a picture of it. Right where it lay in the grass. Without touching it.
And I took a picture of the license plate of the Lexus as it turned the corner.
When I got back to Worthington, I walked straight up the stairs to Russell’s office above the bakery.
I showed him the pictures. I told him exactly what Monica said. Word for word. I’d written it down on the bus in my little spiral notebook.
He wrote it all down too.
“She was wearing my father’s watch,” I said. “The one that was in my jewelry box in that house.”
Russell set down his pen.
“Rebecca,” he said, “do you know what you just told me?”
“What?”
“You told me your sister has been inside that house and taken your personal property. While she was claiming to own it through a forged deed.” He leaned forward. “And she just threatened you with prison if you talk. And tried to pay you off with cash.”
He picked up his phone.
“I’m calling a lawyer.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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