Chapter 6 - THE WITNESS WHO WASN'T THERE
The date on the management agreement saved me.
It claimed I signed the document in Greensboro at 10:30 on a Thursday morning.
At 10:30 that Thursday morning, I was standing on a construction site in Charlotte conducting a bridge-drainage inspection.
There were fourteen people in attendance.
Photos.
GPS-tagged reports.
A city inspector.
A signed field log.
If Dileia claimed she watched me sign anything in Greensboro, she would have to explain how I existed in two places at once.
Patricia looked almost relieved.
“Keep every work record.”
“I already downloaded them.”
“You really are an engineer.”
“Documentation is romantic.”
She laughed.
I needed that.
Then Dileia’s managing broker called me directly.
He was careful not to discuss confidential employment matters, but he asked whether I would provide the police report and listing screenshots.
I did.
He asked one final question.
“Did you ever verbally authorize your sister to market Caldwell Street?”
“No.”
“Ever tell her you intended to sell?”
“No.”
“Ever tell her to bring buyers?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Thank you.”
Dileia called that night.
Her voice shook.
“You reported me to my broker.”
“My attorney responded to their investigation.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
“You could cost me my license.”
“You used your license to enter and market my property without permission.”
“You’re my sister.”
“That doesn’t make the rules disappear.”
She started crying.
For most of my life, Dileia’s tears triggered immediate problem-solving in me.
Not this time.
Then she said:
“You don’t know what Dad did.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“He said Caldwell Street was partly his.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because he gave you the down payment.”
That was so absurd I almost laughed.
Dad had not given me one dollar.
Every cent was traceable to my savings and side work.
“Did you believe him?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
Silence.
“Dileia.”
“No.”
There it was.
She eventually knew Dad had lied.
She continued anyway.
“Why?”
“Because I needed money.”
Honesty again.
Ugly, but useful.
“How much?”
“More than you think.”
She had tax debt.
Credit cards.
Back rent.
And something I did not know about.
A private loan.
From Mom and Dad.
Amount:
$74,000.
“Where did they get seventy-four thousand dollars?”
Dileia began crying harder.
Then she whispered:
“They used the money you sent them.”
I stopped breathing.
May you like
For three years, I had been sending my parents $1,500 a month because Dad said rising medical and household costs were crushing them.
Apparently, a large portion had been redirected to Dileia.
