Chapter 2 - THE KEY IN MY FATHER'S KITCHEN
I picked up the key.
Dad immediately stood.
“Put that down.”
I looked at him.
“Why do you have this?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Then you won’t mind explaining it.”
Mom stopped unloading the dishwasher.
Dileia was nowhere in sight.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“She asked me to hold onto it.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His jaw tightened.
I had spent years watching him use irritation to make people stop asking questions.
It didn’t work this time.
“Where did Dileia get the key?”
Dad finally said:
“She made a copy.”
“From what?”
Silence.
Then Mom whispered:
“Your spare.”
I turned toward her.
“What spare?”
The answer made my stomach drop.
Six months earlier, I had visited my parents while contractors were refinishing the duplex floors.
I left my work bag in their guest room.
Inside was the ring holding the temporary contractor key.
I remembered noticing the ring in a slightly different pocket later.
I dismissed it.
Apparently, Dileia had taken the key, copied it, and returned it before I noticed.
“You knew?” I asked Dad.
“Not then.”
“When did you know?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“And you said nothing.”
He crossed his arms.
“She told me you were thinking about selling.”
“I never told anyone I owned the place.”
Dad looked away.
That was the first crack.
“How did she even know about Caldwell Street?”
Mom turned pale.
Dileia could have followed me.
Found mail.
Seen a tax record.
But Dad’s face told me the answer was closer.
“Dad?”
He sat down.
“I saw the closing papers.”
“How?”
“They were on your laptop.”
“My laptop is password protected.”
“You left it open.”
I felt cold.
During Christmas.
I had worked from my parents’ dining table for an hour.
Dad apparently saw an email from Marcus, my buyer’s agent.
Then he told Dileia.
Not accidentally.
Because, in his words, “she works in real estate and might be useful.”
Useful.
Within two weeks, Dileia knew the address.
Within two months, she had copied my key.
Within six months, she had listed the property.
I looked at Dad.
“You gave her information about my private property.”
“She’s your sister.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
He snapped:
“You have two units. She has nothing.”
There it was.
The family math.
What I had minus what Dileia lacked equaled something she deserved.
I put the key in an envelope and photographed it.
Dad scoffed.
“You’re documenting me now?”
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
Good.
On the drive back to Charlotte, Patricia called.
The brokerage managing broker had responded.
They were investigating Dileia’s conduct.
Then Patricia added:
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Your sister didn’t only create a sales listing.”
She sent me a second screenshot.
Caldwell Street had also appeared on a private investor board two weeks earlier.
Different price.
Different description.
This one said:
OFF-MARKET FAMILY-OWNED DUPLEX. OWNER MOTIVATED. ASSIGNABLE CONTRACT AVAILABLE.
I stared at the words.
“Assignable contract?”
“Yes.”
“Patricia, I never signed a contract.”
“I know.”
Someone apparently had.
Because attached to Dileia’s investor posting was a purchase agreement.
Seller:
Ranata Lewis.
Signature:
May you like
Mine.
Except I had never signed it.
