On the kitchen counter, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A text, just one line: Can we talk? I have proof. Not safe to send.
My thumb hovered. I didn’t respond. My stomach had learned to react to unknown numbers like they were a siren.
Miles leaned over my shoulder. “Could be the person who sent the listing screenshot.”
The screenshot. That stupid, awful thing that had cracked Kara’s mask. I’d tried tracing the number through the detective, but it came back as a burner. No name. No billing address. Nothing that felt human.
I typed: Where?
The reply came fast. Franklin Diner. Back booth. 7:30. Come alone.
Miles let out a short breath, more like a laugh without humor. “Yeah, no.”
“I’m not going alone,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
We went anyway. Together.
The Franklin Diner smelled like fryer oil and coffee that had been sitting too long. The windows were fogged from the rain, and neon light bled into the glass in tired colors. Inside, the booths squeaked when people slid in. Silverware clinked. A kid somewhere was crying, the sound thin and endless.
We took the back booth, our shoulders tight, eyes scanning.
A woman approached with a menu in her hand like a shield. She looked young—mid-twenties, maybe—hair pulled into a messy bun, eyeliner smudged like she’d rubbed her eyes too many times. She wore a blazer that didn’t fit quite right, like she’d borrowed it from someone older.
“Jamie?” she asked quietly.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She slid into the booth across from us without being invited. Her hands trembled when she put her phone down on the table.
“My name is Tessa,” she said. “I work at Lark & Rowe Realty. I… I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Miles didn’t soften. “Then why are you here?”
Tessa swallowed. “Because I saw your address come through our office. Before the news. Before the police had even announced anything officially.”
My throat tightened. “Who brought it in?”
She glanced toward the front of the diner like she expected someone to burst through the door. “Owen. And… your sister.”
The word sister still hit like a bruise.
Tessa continued, voice low. “They didn’t list it, exactly. They asked about a fast sale. Off-market. Cash buyers. They said the owners were… ‘incapacitated.’”
Miles’ jaw tightened. “That’s not how any of this works.”
“I know,” Tessa whispered. “And then Owen slid papers across my boss’s desk. A power of attorney. Notarized.”
My fingers went cold around my water glass. “A power of attorney? My parents never—”
“I don’t think it was real,” she said quickly. “I thought it was forged. The signature looked… copied. Like someone traced it.”
The air around me felt too thin. Like the diner’s warmth couldn’t reach my bones.
Tessa pulled a manila envelope from her bag and pushed it across the table. “I printed copies before my boss shredded them. I know that’s illegal. I know. But my boss didn’t want trouble and Owen kept saying, ‘It’ll be clean. It’ll be done before anyone asks questions.’”
Miles opened the envelope. Inside were photocopies of forms, signatures, a notary stamp that looked too perfect. Miles’ eyes flicked over the page, then stopped hard.
“That notary number,” he muttered. “It’s missing digits.”
Tessa nodded fast, relief and panic mixing in her face. “Exactly. That’s why I knew something was wrong. And then the next day I saw the news about your parents in the ICU. And I… I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, if I don’t say something, they’ll do it again. To someone else.”
I felt my eyes burn. Not because she’d saved us. Because she’d seen the plan in motion while my parents were lying unconscious on the floor of their own home.
Miles slid the copies back into the envelope. “You should give this to the detective.”
“I will,” Tessa said, voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t want to be the only one holding it. If something happens to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Miles said, but he didn’t sound sure.
Tessa’s gaze snapped to me. “Your sister isn’t just… greedy. She’s careful. She kept asking about timelines. What happens if the owners die. How fast probate moves. She wasn’t mourning. She was scheduling.”
My stomach rolled. In my mind I saw Kara’s indoor sunglasses. Her questions. Practical, practical, practical.
Tessa slid out of the booth. “I have to go. My boss thinks I’m meeting a friend.”
“Wait,” I blurted. “Why did you text me anonymously?”
She hesitated. “Because Owen saw me print the forms. He didn’t say anything, but he watched. And the next day, a man I’ve never seen before was standing by my car at work. Just… standing there, smiling like we had a secret.”
A chill ran up my spine.
She left fast, her shoes squeaking on the diner floor. The bell over the door jingled as she disappeared into the rain.
Miles and I sat there staring at the envelope like it was radioactive.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number. This time it wasn’t a text.
It was a voicemail.
I hit play and held the phone to my ear, the diner noise falling away.
A man’s voice, low and amused, said, “You’re pulling threads that don’t belong to you. Stop, or your parents will finish what Kara started.”
My blood turned to ice, and I looked at Miles with my mouth open, unable to breathe.
Because whoever it was didn’t sound like Owen.
So who else had been inside my family’s life this whole time?
Part 8
