Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
“Thank you, Keith,” I said. “I might need to take you up on that.”
“The quiet is free,” he said, picking up his folders. “Make sure you log your hours by five tonight.”
He left the breakroom, his leather shoes clicking on the polished concrete of the hallway.
The walk from the bus stop after work was damp, the heavy air settling into my wool coat by the time I reached my front door. Inside, the scent of expensive cheese and cured meats met me before I even reached the kitchen.
Vanessa was standing by the counter, surrounded by four large brown paper bags from the specialty market on Hawthorne. She was sliding her designer sunglasses onto her head, her long fingernails tapping against the marble-patterned cardboard of a gourmet cracker box.
“I bought the things we like,” Vanessa said, gesturing to the counter. “The imported prosciutto, the truffle butter, and those little French olives.”
“We cannot afford these things, Vanessa,” I said, setting my bag on the stained oak coffee table.
