Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
The kitchen was empty at eight o’clock on Tuesday morning, the only sound being the low hum of the refrigerator.
Vanessa was still asleep in the guest room, her bedroom door shut tight to block out the morning light. I poured my coffee into a ceramic mug, then walked over to the under-sink cabinet to throw away my empty coffee filter.
As I pulled the plastic trash bin drawer open, a bright yellow slip of paper caught my eye, wedged between the plastic liner and the cabinet wall.
I reached down and pulled it out, smoothing the crumpled sheet against the edge of the kitchen counter.
It was a customer copy of a receipt from a high-end luggage boutique on Broadway, dated the previous Tuesday.
Three leather suitcases, navy blue with brass fittings, totaling six hundred and forty dollars.
The signature at the bottom of the slip, written in a loose, looping cursive, was Vanessa’s.
But the credit card number printed just above her signature did not match any card I owned, nor did it match Vanessa’s debit card. The last four digits were four-one-one-two.
