To my house?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t own my house.”
“Not yet.”
The room went quiet.
I looked down again.
My name appeared on the document.
Carly Anne Bennett.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“No.”
Mrs.
Whitaker remained seated.
“No, this is… no.”
“It has already been arranged.”
“You bought my house?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
I felt dizzy.
“That’s impossible.”
“It wasn’t particularly difficult.”
“You can’t buy somebody’s house without telling them.”
“The owner was happy to sell.”
“What owner?”
“Mr.
Rawlings.”
I knew the name.
He lived in Florida and owned several rental properties in town.
I had spoken to him exactly twice in eleven years.
Mrs.
Whitaker continued.
“The lease transfer was handled quietly.
I asked the management company not to inform you until the paperwork was completed.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
Her face changed.
And there, finally, I saw something behind the
