She called every lawyer she could find in a fifty-mile radius.
The first two told her, kindly, that she didn’t have a case.
By the fifth, word had spread. Lawyers talk. No one wanted to take on a frivolous case against a twenty-two-year-old whose grandparents had set up a rock-solid estate plan.
Her cousin—the one she always bragged about being a “hotshot real estate attorney”—turned out to mostly handle DUIs and minor slip-and-falls out of an office wedged between a nail salon and a vape shop.
Even he said no.
Meanwhile, Brandon tried to find a job for the first time in his life.
He discovered that “Content Creator” with no portfolio and a hundred followers doesn’t impress hiring managers.
Sierra’s sorority sisters found out the truth, too. Not because I told them, but because she wouldn’t shut up about it. She’d built her whole image on “rich girl aesthetic.” Designer bags. Brunch. Luxury.
Turns out, a lot of those bags were fake.
Her friends cut her off faster than a bad bang trend.
And through it all, the eviction clock ticked down.
Thirty days. Then twenty.
Then fifteen.
Tracy got desperate.I got the notification while I was on shift at Starbucks.
“Living Room Camera: Motion detected.”
Nothing unusual. We lived with people. Motion happened.
Then another.
“Upstairs Hall Camera: Motion detected.”
Then another.
“Master Closet Camera: Motion detected.”
That one made my stomach twist.
I’d installed the cameras on my lawyer’s suggestion after serving the eviction notice. Not hidden, not creepy. Visible. One in the living room. One in the entryway. One in the hallway near the bedrooms. One in the master closet where I kept my mom’s jewelry.
I pulled my phone out on break and opened the feed.
There she was.
Tracy, moving quickly. Not the leisurely stroll of someone getting ready to go out. The jerky, frantic movements of someone on a mission.
She opened my closet.
She went straight for the small jewelry box on the top shelf. The one that held my mom’s necklaces, earrings, and a few pieces from my grandmother. She opened it. Her hands—perfectly manicured, of course—grabbed a handful of necklaces and shoved them into her purse.
My mother’s necklaces.
The ones Grandma had cried over as she handed them to me after Mom’s funeral.
“Oh, hell no,” I whispered, dropping my apron.
I showed my manager.
“I need to go,” I said. “Family emergency.”
She took one look at my face and waved me out.