Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
The signature on the copy of the transition form was a hurried, sweeping cursive that attempted to mimic my own handwriting.
It looked close, but the loop of the letter L was too wide, and the final stroke of my last name trailed off into a flat, straight line.
I folded both documents and slid them into my pocket.
The hallway was quiet, but I could hear the low murmur of Vanessa’s television from the guest bedroom.
I stood up and walked toward the kitchen, my boots clicking softly on the hardwood floor.
At ten o’clock, Vanessa walked into the kitchen wearing her silk robe, her expensive designer sunglasses perched on top of her head.
She reached for the glass coffee pot, pouring the last of the dark roast into her mug without looking at me.
“We are going to need more coffee pods by tomorrow,” she said, her voice rising in a high, theatrical tone before she let out a dramatic sigh.
I took the county tax document out of my pocket and laid it on the stained oak coffee table near the counter.
