Chapter 8 - The Pattern
Patricia told me not to contact the other owners directly.
So I didn’t.
She did.
By evening, the retired teacher had confirmed Dileia had approached her with a “creative sale structure” she never agreed to.
The dead man’s daughter said her father’s property had briefly appeared online under an agent she did not recognize.
That agent was Dileia.
“This is bigger than your duplex,” Patricia said.
I hated hearing it.
Part of me had still been clinging to the idea that Dileia had panicked, made one reckless choice, and then dug herself deeper.
Patterns destroy comforting stories.
The brokerage placed her license on internal suspension pending review.
Frank Merrick finally admitted he had visited Caldwell Street.
His explanation was careful.
“Dileia told me you wanted a broker price opinion.”
“Did you speak to me?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you see written authorization?”
“She showed me an email.”
Patricia leaned forward.
“Produce it.”
Frank’s lawyer objected.
Patricia smiled without humor.
“Then the commission can request it.”
That night, Mom showed up at my apartment.
She carried a grocery bag like this was a normal visit.
“I brought soup.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She set it down anyway.
“I need you to remember she’s your sister.”
“I remember.”
“She’s scared.”
“So are Ben and Yolanda. So are you and Dad.”
Mom flinched.
“She made mistakes.”
“No. She made documents.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
Then she reached into her purse.
“I found this in the mail.”
It was a certified notice from Red Birch Capital.
Payment default.
Collateral enforcement review.
At the bottom, beneath my parents’ address, was a second line.
814 Caldwell Street.
And beside it was a date.
May you like
December 29.
Three days away.
