Page 89 of Landlord Wars
I pulled out my phone and typed out a text. “I’ll take the week off and help you.”
“What?” She looked distressed. “You can’t. What about work?”
“I already have, and the company will be fine. We’re in between projects, with Cityscape on hold indefinitely. I’ve emailed everyone I know to get it to move forward again, but it’s a waiting game right now. Besides, I haven’t taken a week off in five years. I could use a vacation.”
She gave me a dubious look. “And you’re going to spend it with me dumpster-diving through my mom’s home? That is awful.”
I pulled her back to my chest, exactly where she belonged. “Not awful. I’ll be with you. Besides, someone has to make sure you are properly supplied with chocolate and taco truck food.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, tacos. Can we get some? I skipped breakfast.”
My mouth turned down. “We need to do something about your forgetfulness when it comes to feeding yourself. As soon as you move in, I’m hiring a chef.”
She pinched my waist. “I never said I’d move in.”
I laughed. “But you did. You sealed it with a kiss.”
“Stop using my weaknesses against me!”
The sound of my mother laughing floated out from the hospital room, and Sophia’s and my eyes grew round.
“What are they doing in there?” she said.
I glanced at my watch. They’d been talking for at least fifteen minutes while we chatted about the move, and it was making me nervous. “No good can come from those two together. You’ve seen my mom’s salon? She’s a high-end hoarder. They’re probably plotting a shopping spree.”
“Or to hit a garage sale.”
I sent her a panicked look. “Don’t joke. My mom has a guy who finds her ‘collectibles’ at estate sales.”
More happy laughter floated out from the room. “This is so weird,” Sophia said.
“Agreed.” I nodded toward the exit. “Let’s grab lunch while they’re busy plotting world collectible domination.”
ChapterThirty-Five
Sophia
Two weeks later,I raced home after receiving a text message from Max.
Max: The mothers are plotting something. Regroup at your apartment, stat.
Givenwhat we’d recently learned about our mothers’ past, I was terrified.
It turned out Kitty Burrows and my mother had gone to elementary school together and were childhood acquaintances. In between my mom’s virtual therapy sessions (to be held in person once she was fully recovered), Kitty called on my mom while she lived at my place, and you’d think they were two peas in a pod, sitting on Jack’s couch and chatting about old times.
I speed-walked up the street in my white tennis shoes and noticed a man with a lightly wrinkled tweed sports jacket and a beer paunch standing out in front of our building, which caught me off guard. He was looking through one of the windows to our apartment, and that was a tad creepy.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
I’d spent the day interviewing candidates for coordinator positions. Victor had a pile of great applicants, and I honestly wanted them all, but would have to whittle it down to two.
“You live here?” the man asked. He didn’t look like a mass murderer, and it was the middle of the day. Maybe this was an innocent query?
He glanced down at his notes. “I’m a reporter. I’m looking for a Maxwell Burrows. I have a few questions for him.”
So, not an innocent query.
Without responding, I texted Max that another reporter was outside.
