Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I stood up from the vinyl booth and left three dollar bills on the table. He did not look up as I walked out, his fingers already back to rubbing his knuckles.
I drove down Maggie Street three hours later, parking my rental car two houses away from my bungalow to avoid attracting attention. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and salt water, the Gulf breeze rustling the overgrown ligustrum bushes along my old fence line. Emily Morrison was standing by the trunk of her blue sedan, holding a white porcelain mug with both hands.
“Staff Sergeant,” she said, her voice small and hurried. “I did not expect to see you back here today.”
“I am trying to understand the paperwork,” I said, keeping my hands clasped behind my back. “The county records office says the house sold for sixty-four thousand dollars.”
Emily shook her head, her fingers tightening around her mug until her knuckles went pale. “That cannot be right. I paid eighty-eight thousand to Mr. Benson’s office.”
