Not Once
"My house," Garrett repeated, and I let that word sit in the air a second before I said anything, because we both knew it wasn't true yet — Crestline Holdings hadn't closed on anything.
"Terrence Boyd," I said. "Old friend of your aunt's. She invited me in."
"She doesn't invite people places. She's confused half the time, that's the whole reason I'm handling things." He set his keys down hard on the counter, a small violent little sound. "You need to leave."
"I don't think I do."
Odessa's grip tightened on my hand under the table, and I understood, in that moment, that whatever mask of gratitude and helpfulness Garrett wore for outsiders had already cracked once she and I were alone together — she'd seen underneath it, and it terrified her.
"I'm calling the police," Garrett said. "I don't know what you're after — money, probably, these old ladies are targets for guys like you — but you're not scamming my family."
"Funny," I said. "That's almost exactly what I came here to say to you."
His jaw worked. "Get out."
"I've already spoken to an elder-law attorney. I've already pulled the LLC filing with your name on it as the sole member. I know Crestline Holdings offered a hundred and forty thousand dollars for a house the county values at over two hundred. I know you've been managing her medication schedule with no doctor's note on file. And I know Adult Protective Services has had an open report on you for five weeks."
Every word landed like a slap he wasn't allowed to flinch from in front of his aunt.
"You don't know anything," he said, but his voice had lost its floor.
My phone buzzed against my hip. A message from Faye, sent two minutes ago, county assessor's office confirmation attached.
I read it once. Then I read it out loud, slow, so Odessa would hear every word.
"Property tax payment history, Larkspur Lane, last twenty-two years. Paid in full. Every single year. On time, every single time." I looked up at Garrett. "The taxes were never late. Not once. Somebody made that up."
Garrett's face went a color I don't have a good word for — not pale, exactly, more like a man watching a door he'd been leaning against get pulled open from the other side.
"Odessa," he said, too fast, too loud, "he's lying, don't listen to—"
But she wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at me, and at the phone in my hand, and doing arithmetic she should never have had to do about a man who called her Aunt Dess like it meant something.