A luxury property in a gated community with a name that sounded like it belonged in a real estate commercial. The kind of neighborhood that had an HOA that fined you for leaving your trash bin out too long. The kind of place I’d joked about when I scrolled listings online, like, look at this marble kitchen that costs more than my entire life.
I wrote the address down anyway, my hand moving on autopilot.
Megan kept talking. “If you’d like, I can email you copies of the closing documents. You’ll need to confirm the email address on file.”
“Tell me,” I said, and my stomach tightened as I waited.
She did.
It wasn’t mine.
It was my sister’s email.
I went completely still.
My sister’s name slid into my mind like a knife finding the soft spot between ribs.
Cassandra.
Cass.
My older sister by two years, my parents’ golden girl, the one who could sell a bottle of water to a drowning man and make him thank her for the opportunity. The one who treated rules like suggestions and consequences like things that happened to other people.