“You bought my house?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
I felt dizzy.
“That’s impossible.”
“It wasn’t particularly difficult.”
“You can’t buy somebody’s house without telling them.”
“The owner was happy to sell.”
“What owner?”
“Mr.
Rawlings.”
I knew the name.
He lived in Florida and owned several rental properties in town.
I had spoken to him exactly twice in eleven years.
Mrs.
Whitaker continued.
“The lease transfer was handled quietly.
I asked the management company not to inform you until the paperwork was completed.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
Her face changed.
And there, finally, I saw something behind the
composed elderly woman I had known for eight years.
Guilt.
“Because of a conversation I overheard.”
My stomach tightened.
“What conversation?”
“Last spring.
You were upstairs cleaning.
Your phone rang.”
I remembered.
“You answered in the hallway.
You were speaking to someone at the bank.”Open Bank Account
My face burned.
I knew exactly which call she meant.
I had applied for a small mortgage.
