Chapter 7 - The Landlord Knocks
The eviction notice was served at 4:15 PM on Friday.
I know the exact time because Tessa was sitting in her parked car across the street from the Broadstone Lofts, drinking an iced latte and providing live operational intelligence via FaceTime.
“Oh, it’s happening,” Tessa whispered into her phone, angling the camera toward the main entrance. “The leasing director just walked in with two uniformed security guards and a guy in a blazer who looks like a process server.”
“Keep your distance, Tessa,” I said from my kitchen table, where I was organizing my newly acquired police report forms. “I don't need you getting caught up in a trespassing dispute.”
“Sylvia, please. I am a licensed real estate appraiser. Sitting in parked cars staring at apartment buildings is literally forty percent of my professional life.”
On the screen, I watched the small digital feed.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, the double glass doors of the lobby burst open.
Briana emerged first, her face blotchy and distorted with hysterical rage. She was wearing gym leggings and an oversized denim jacket, clutching Pierre the French bulldog to her chest like a shield. Chase followed behind her, gesticulating wildly at Greg Vance, who stood calmly in the doorway flanked by two massive private security guards.
“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” Chase’s voice carried faintly across the street through Tessa’s car window. “THIS IS UNLAWFUL! WE HAVE TENANT PROTECTIONS!”
Greg Vance didn't even raise his voice. He handed a bright yellow document to Chase, pointed toward the street, and said something brief.
Chase looked down at the paper.
His entire body seemed to deflate. The aggressive, chest-puffed posture he had maintained throughout the entire ordeal collapsed like an empty tent. His shoulders rounded, his hands dropped to his sides, and he stared at the paper as if it were an explosive device.
“What’s on the paper?” I asked Tessa.
“I can't see the text from here, but based on the color, that’s an expedited notice of immediate lease termination for criminal misrepresentation,” Tessa said, her voice filled with professional glee. “They don't get thirty days for fraud, Sylvia. In Arizona, if you submit forged financial records on a commercial lease, the landlord can lock the doors within seventy-two hours.”
Briana turned around on the sidewalk, caught sight of Tessa’s car, and froze.
“Uh oh,” Tessa muttered. “She spotted me.”
Briana charged across the street, dodging a delivery van, and slammed both hands against Tessa’s passenger-side window. Pierre let out a series of frantic, asthmatic barks.
“TELL HER TO STOP!” Briana screamed through the glass. Her face was pressed against the tint, her features contorted. “TELL HER SHE’S RUINING MY LIFE! CHASE IS GOING TO GO TO JAIL! DO YOU HEAR ME, TESSA? THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT THE POLICE!”
Tessa didn't roll down the window. She simply raised her phone, pointed the camera directly at Briana’s face, and held up three fingers.
“Seventy-two hours, Bri,” Tessa said through the glass. “Better start packing those yoga mats.”
Briana shrieked in frustration, kicked Tessa’s front tire with her sneaker, and stormed back toward the lobby where Chase was frantically arguing with an Uber driver who had arrived to pick up a completely different passenger.
Tessa turned the camera back to herself.
“Sylvia?”
“Yeah?”
“You are my personal hero. But you need to know something.”
“What?”
“Chase didn't forge those pay stubs by himself.”
I paused. “What do you mean?”
“My dad told me this morning,” Tessa said, her tone dropping into serious, quiet family concern. “Uncle Bob was talking to your dad last night. Chase didn't find those pay stubs in your old boxes. Your mom gave them to him.”
The air went still in my kitchen.
“Mom gave him my pay stubs?”
“Mom told Chase that you ‘wouldn't mind’ being the guarantor, but that you were ‘too busy with work’ to handle the paperwork yourself. She literally handed him your old tax returns and told him to ‘make it work’ because she wanted Briana out of her Scottsdale house so badly she didn't care how it happened.”
I closed my eyes.
The final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
This had never been about helping Briana achieve an elevated lifestyle. This was about my mother wanting the prestige of a daughter living in a luxury Scottsdale apartment without having to spend a single dime of her own dwindling retirement money to fund it.
Mom had used Chase as a cat’s-paw, Briana as a showcase, and me as the bank.
“Tessa,” I said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Go home. Get some dinner.”
“What are you going to do?”
May you like
“I’m going to have a conversation with an attorney,” I said. “A very expensive conversation.”
***
