“You still think you can win,” Monica said.
I didn’t pick up the envelope.
Neither did she.
It just lay there in the grass between us, with the torn corner and the hundred-dollar bills peeking out.
“Do you know how little time you have,” Monica said, “before your house is sold?”
A wave of cold dread went through my whole body.
“What did you do?” I said.
She opened the manila folder and took out a stack of papers. She held them out over the clothesline.
I took them.
It was a copy of a deed. My deed. The house with the red front door. There were stamps all over it, official stamps, and handwritten notes from the county recorder’s office in the margins.
And behind the deed, there were more papers. A mortgage. A loan agreement. A notice of default.
“The house secures a debt that’s in default,” Monica said. “Three hundred and forty thousand dollars. The bank’s going to foreclose. If you keep pushing, Becky, you’re going to end up with absolutely nothing. At least this way, you walk away with ninety thousand dollars.”
