Not because any of it was funny.
Because the sentence was so completely Dileia that it could have come from twenty years earlier.
“Split what?”
“The profit.”
“There is no ‘we.’”
Her expression hardened.
“I’ve been helping Mom and Dad for years while you’re down here living your own life.”
It was an astonishing rewrite of our family history.
But arguing about family history would have pulled us away from the only fact that mattered.
I pointed toward the building.
“Your name is not on that deed.”
She looked away.
“You don’t own a percentage.”
Nothing.
“You were never authorized to enter.”
“Ranata—”
“You were never authorized to list it.”
She shook her head.
“You always do this. You act like everything is a contract.”
“No. I document things when they matter.”
Officer Reyes shifted slightly beside us.
Dileia noticed.
So did I.
I turned toward him.
“What do you need from me for the report?”
That ended the conversation.
Not emotionally.
But practically.
And practical endings had always been the kind Dileia respected least.
The locksmith arrived at 8:30.
Her name was Carla, and she worked quickly.
Gretchen had called her after I explained what had happened.
Carla replaced three exterior locks and rekeyed the mailbox while Gretchen and I sat at Ben and Yolanda’s kitchen table downstairs.
I had already spoken with them.
They had been home during part of the incident but assumed Dileia belonged there because she carried herself as though she did.
That detail stayed with me.
Confidence opens a surprising number of doors before anyone asks whether you actually own the key.
Gretchen had brought a legal pad.
“Start from the notification,” she said.
So I did.
4:47.
Motion alert.
Three people.
Unauthorized showing.
Police contact.
Listing discovered.
Ownership verified.
Locks changed.
When I finished, Gretchen put down her pen.
“Are you okay?”
I looked through the kitchen toward the ceiling, knowing my sister had been walking strangers around directly above us.
“Yes.”
Gretchen studied me.
“That sounded very fast.”
I knew what she meant.
I thought about it again.
“I’m angry.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
“I’m also not surprised enough.”
That was the part that hurt.
Not simply that Dileia had crossed a boundary.
But that she had crossed one so enormous and some small, exhausted part of me still recognized the family logic behind it.
Ranata has something.
Dileia needs something.
Therefore the distance between those two facts is negotiable.
At 9:16, while Carla finished the final lock, I sat inside Unit B and opened the real estate platform.
The listing was still live.
I took screenshots of everything.
The price.
The photographs.
The description.
Dileia’s agent information.
The date.
Then I saved copies in two separate locations.
Only after that did I report the listing.
The platform requested proof.
I uploaded the deed and the police report number.
By 11:47 that night, I received an email confirming that the listing had been removed.
I barely slept.
Continue reading on the next page →
