Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, he will.
If I thought my day was going to get any better, then I was sorely mistaken.
When I arrive home, I find a man in a designer tracksuit waiting by the security gate.
I pull into the driveway. “Can I help you?”
“Are you the agent?” he asks impatiently.
He’s young. All brains and no manners.
“Agent?”
He rolls his eyes. “Listen, I’m a busy man, and I don’t have all day to wait around on the curb like a vagrant. Just give me the keys and let’s get this done.”
“What keys?”
“Keys to my house.”
“This house?”
“Are you having a stroke? Yes, this house, 2300 Pilkington Lane.”
“But this is my house.”
He scoffs. “I don’t think so.”
I huff out a frustrated breath. A delusional dick in a designer tracksuit with a ridiculously large white zipper is the last thing I need right now.
“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“Like I said, I’m the owner,” he snaps.
Okay, enough. This guy has already wasted enough of my time. I grip the steering wheel. I need to get inside, sink into a warm bath, and drown my sorrows with some Ben & Jerry’s.
“Get a life, loser.” I hit the remote button sitting on my dash and the gates open.
I drive in, but before the gates close, he follows me in.
“Why have you got my gate remote?” he says, storming toward my car. “And I’ll thank you very much to get off my driveway.”
I climb out of my car and make a performance of pulling out my phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Go right ahead, it will save me the phone call. Do me a favor and tell them Brunette Barbie is trespassing on my property.”
I don’t make the phone call. Instead, I drop my phone back into my bag and pull out my gun. When I aim it at him, his bravado vaporizes in an instant and he throws his hands up. “Whoa.”
“I said, get the hell off my property.”
He grabs at the computer bag he has at his hip.
“I have p-proof the house is m-mine,” he stammers, removing a folder from his computer bag. “The deed of sale.”
Trembling, he thrusts the folder at me.
I don’t take it from him. I just stare at him. Trying to figure out who the hell he is and what he’s after. For a moment, I thought he was a reporter wanting to know more about my father and the shoot-out at the waterfront that claimed his life. A crime that two months later remains unsolved. Because the De Kysa have one hell of a cleanup crew.
But now I’m thinking he looks like one of those tech millionaire types. The ones who look like they live behind a computer, creating millions of dollars through code and innovation.
I put my gun back in my bag and cautiously take the folder from him.
Inside is a deed of sale and other contracts, and as I read them, my world falls out from under me.
Harrison, you house-stealing asshole.
It’s funny what you think about when your life is crashing down around you.
Like right now, it’s this asshole’s zipper on his designer hoodie. It’s thick, white, with big plastic teeth, and I have to resist the urge to reach over and pull on it just to watch those plastic teeth open and close, open and close… and, my God I’m having a breakdown.
“This can’t be happening,” I whisper.
But it’s all there in black and white.
Harrison sold my house.
I know right now I’m supposed to face facts and deal with this like an adult.
But after the day I’ve had, I decide to go with denial instead.
I shove his documents back at him.
“Listen, Zippy, I’m sorry but you’ve been scammed. The person who sold you this house didn’t own it. I do. So take it up with them.” I start walking away but when he starts following me, I swing around. “Remember I have a gun in my bag. So I suggest you stop following me if you don’t want me to shoot you.”
Zippy steps back, suitably terrified, and I unlock my front door and slam it closed behind me.
4
BIANCA
Ten minutes later, my doorbell rings.
I consider not answering it and retreating into my bedroom to hide under my comforter until they go away. I know who it is. It’s Zippy and his realtor coming to take my house away.
But I’m a Bamcorda, and we don’t hide under comforters. We face our problems head-on. Or with a Beretta.
Either way, I know I have to answer the door and face what is on the other side of it.
Even if, deep down inside, all I want to do is sit on the floor and cry.
I suck in a deep breath and open the front door.
Zippy is there with his glamorous real estate agent who looks like she’s been dipped in gold and sprayed with diamonds. A cool breeze blows in but her stiff blonde hair doesn’t move.