Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
I followed her, Vanessa trailing behind us like a shadow.
In the kitchen, the space where the stainless steel refrigerator had stood was a gaping void of gray linoleum and yellowed wall outlet. The stove was gone too, leaving only a grease-stained square of concrete and a thick black power cord lying curled on the floor like a dead snake.
“Where is the stove?” Helen demanded, turning to face me. “Where is the refrigerator, Lauren? This is property damage. This is a crime.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a manila folder. I had kept the receipts in chronological order, stapled to the original store leaflets.
“I bought every appliance in this room, and I have the records to prove it,” I said.
I opened the folder and held out the top page. It was a receipt from an appliance warehouse in Beaverton, dated two years ago, showing my signature and my personal checking account number at the bottom.
