“Immi, I will not—”
“Ms. Evelyn,” I said, closing her fingers over the envelope. “You just gave me something worth more than any amount of money. You just reminded me who I am. And I think I know what to do. I… I remembered. I have a resource. Something I forgot about. I’m going to be okay. I promise.”
It was a lie, but it was the truest thing I’d ever said.
I was going to be okay.
I stood up. I felt taller.
“I will never, ever be able to thank you for this,” I said.
She stood up with me.
“You just go and be the diamond you are. That’s all the thanks I need.”
I hugged her one last time, tight.
“I love you, Ms. Evelyn.”
“I love you too, child. Now, go on. Handle your business.”
I walked out of her apartment. I walked down the three flights of stairs. I got back into my old, rattling Honda Civic.
I sat there in the driver’s seat under the dim yellow streetlights. I looked at my reflection in the dark windshield. The tear tracks were already drying.
The puffy, desperate woman who had knocked on Ms. Evelyn’s door was gone. In her place was someone else. Her face was set. Her eyes were not sad. They were not angry. They were determined.
They were the eyes of a woman who had just been handed a sword.
My mother’s words came back to me.
“Handle your own business.”
My brother’s words.
“That’s your job.”
Ms. Evelyn’s words.
“Go on. Handle your business.”
“Okay,” I whispered to the empty car. “I will.”
The test was over. The despair was gone.
This was no longer a test. It was a trap.
I picked up my phone, the one with the $45 million banking app. I scrolled through my contacts, right past Jamal, right past Mom, until I found the new number I had added last week, the one saved under “Mr. W.”
I pressed the call button.
It rang twice. A crisp, professional voice answered.
“Law Offices of Hakeem Washington. How may I direct your call?”
My voice when I spoke was unrecognizable. It was cold. It was clear. It was the voice of a CEO, the voice of a diamond.
“Hello,” I said. “I need to speak with Mr. Hakeem Washington directly. It’s urgent.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Yes,” I said, staring straight ahead at the dark street. “My name is Immani Carter.”
“One moment, Ms. Carter.”
I held the line. I didn’t fidget. I didn’t breathe hard. I just waited.
“Immi. Is everything all right?”
His voice was smooth, concerned.
“Everything is fine, Mr. Washington,” I said. “In fact, things have just become very clear. Something has come up that requires your immediate attention.”
“Oh? Yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s… it’s regarding an inheritance. A property left to me by my grandmother, Altha Carter. It seems my family, my mother and my brother, are attempting to fraudulently acquire my share.”
There was a pause on the line. I could hear the faint sound of him typing.
“I see,” he said, his voice all business now. “And what… what did you have in mind?”
I looked at my own reflection again, and for the first time, I smiled.
“Oh,” I said. “I have a plan. A very specific plan. It’s going to require your creative legal expertise, and it’s going to be based on a very, very large financial foundation.”
“I’m listening, Ms. Carter. When do you want to meet?”
“First thing tomorrow morning,” I said. “They thought I needed $2,000. They’re about to find out just how wrong they were.”
I waited.
I let an entire day go by. I let them imagine me desperate, cold, sleeping in my car. I let them savor their victory. I needed my performance to be perfect. I needed to sound utterly, completely beaten.
I sat in my car parked around the corner from my apartment. I took a few deep breaths, summoning the voice of the old Immi, the one who was small and scared and had no options.
Then I dialed Jamal’s number. I put the phone on speaker so I could hear everything.
He picked up on the third ring.
“What?”
His voice was annoyed. He was screening my calls.
“Jamal,” I said, and I was proud of how my voice cracked. “I made it high, thin, and watery, like I’d been crying for twenty-four hours. Jamal, it’s me. Please, please don’t hang up.”
“Immi, I told you I can’t help you.”
“No, wait. Wait,” I said, forcing a sob into my throat. “You… you were right. You and Mom, you were right. I can’t… I can’t make it. I have nowhere to go. I… I’ll do it.”
There was a pause.
“Do what?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp, cautious.
“The house,” I whispered, as if I was ashamed. “Big Mama’s house. You… you said you wanted to sell it. I’ll sign the papers. I’ll… I’ll sign anything. I just… I need the money. I need it right now.”
The line went completely silent. I could hear his muffled hand cover the receiver.
I heard him whisper,
“She’ll do it. She’s caving.”
And then I heard Ashley’s distinct, triumphant laugh in the background. It was a high, sharp, ugly sound.
A moment later, Jamal was back on the line. His voice had completely transformed. The annoyance was gone. In its place was that slick, smooth, fake, sympathetic tone. The one he always used when he thought he was in charge.
“Oh, Immi, sis, listen. That’s… that’s a good decision. A smart decision. See? I told Mom you’d come around. That’s what family does. We pull together. We make the smart moves.”
“I just… I just need the money,” I repeated, letting my voice tremble.
“And you’re in luck,” he said, jumping on it. “I’ve already been working on it for us. I’ve got an investor friend who’s interested. He’s a cash buyer. He’s willing to take the property as is. You know, with the bad roof and all that. He’ll give us $150,000 for it. Cash. We can close in just a few days.”
$150,000.
I had to physically bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
The number was an insult.
He didn’t know. He didn’t know that my job for the last three years, my secret second job, wasn’t just being an admin. It was being a remote paralegal specializing in property law. He didn’t know that I knew exactly what Big Mama’s house was worth.
It wasn’t just some rotting house. It was in Vine City. Ten years ago, sure, it was a rough neighborhood. But now it was the hottest zip code in Atlanta. It was a five-minute walk from the new Westside Park. Developers were bulldozing entire blocks and putting up $800,000 townhomes.
Mr. Washington, my real lawyer, had pulled the comps just that morning. As is, with the leaky roof and the boarded-up windows, that property was worth $700,000 easy. And my brother, my flesh and blood, was trying to buy my share based on a valuation of $150,000. He was trying to steal over half a million dollars from his own family.
I let out another fake, watery sniffle.
I did the math out loud, playing the part of the desperate fool.
“$150,000… but Jamal, that’s… that’s only $50,000 for me.”
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little too cheerful. “Fifty grand is fifty grand, sis. That’s a hell of a lot more than you got right now, right? It’ll get you out of this mess. Get you a new apartment, a new start. It’s a great deal.”
Before I could even answer, I heard a rustle and Ashley’s sharp voice came on the line. She must have ripped the phone right out of his hand.
“Immi-kunga,” she said, her voice like poison syrup. “Let’s just be real. We are doing you a massive favor here. That 150k is the total price, yes, but Jamal has been doing all the work. He’s the one who found the buyer. He’s the one who’s been talking to the lawyers. He’s the one who’s going to have to pay the $3,000 in back taxes first. You haven’t done anything.”
I knew where this was going. The hook was in. Now she was reeling the line.
“Wh… what do you mean?” I whispered.
“I mean,” she said, her voice suddenly cold and hard, all the fake sweetness gone, “Jamal has to be paid for his time, his services, the legal fees, the finder fee. All of that comes out. Your part, your take-home, is $20,000.”
$20,000 for my $233,000 share.
It was so greedy, so shamelessly criminal, it was beautiful. It was exactly what I needed.
“Twenty thousand,” I stammered.
“That’s the offer,” she snapped. “Take it or leave it. We’ll sell our two-thirds and we’ll just let your share sit there and get taken by the county for the unpaid taxes. Then you get nothing. Your choice. We’re trying to help you, Immi.”
This was the moment, the final turn of the screw.
I closed my eyes. I pictured Ms. Evelyn’s face. I pictured the $50 prom dress. I pictured the $200 Jordans.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. The performance of my life.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“What? I can’t hear you. Speak up,” she demanded.
“Okay,” I cried, letting my voice crack with fake desperation. “Okay, yes. Twenty thousand. I’ll… I’ll take it. I’ll sign. I just… I need it. I really need it. Please.”
There was a beat of dead silence. And then I heard it. A small, satisfied little puff of a laugh from Ashley. She had won.
“See?” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Jamal will text you the time and the address for the signing tomorrow. It’s a title office his friend uses. Don’t be late.”
She hung up. The call ended.
I sat there in the total silence of my car, staring at the blank phone screen. A slow, cold smile spread across my face.
It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of a hunter who had just watched the wolf walk right into the cage.
“Hook,” I whispered to my reflection. “Line and sinker.”
The trap was set.
Jamal’s text came the next morning. The address wasn’t a law firm. It wasn’t a real estate agency. It was a “Document and Notary Express” in a sad, half-empty strip mall off the highway, right next to a check cashing place and a store that sold wigs.
The fluorescent lights inside hummed, casting a sick yellow-green light on everything. The air smelled like burnt coffee and dusty carpets. It was the perfect place to do something shady.
They were already there, sitting in two stained plastic chairs, looking like a king and queen holding court in a dumpster. Jamal in his new Jordans and Ashley in a bright pink tracksuit, scrolling through her phone, looking bored.
A large, sweaty man sat behind a cheap folding table. A “Notary Public” sign was propped up in front of him. He didn’t even look up when I walked in. He just grunted.
“Immi, sis, you made it.”
Jamal jumped up, his smile wide and fake, his eyes darting around. He was nervous. Good.
Ashley didn’t get up. She just sighed a long, impatient sound.
“Good. Let’s get this over with. Some of us have appointments.”
Jamal grabbed a thick stack of papers from the table and pushed it toward me, along with a cheap blue pen that had a fake flower taped to the end.
“All right, this is it,” he said, trying to sound official. “You just sign here, here, and on the last page. The notary guy will stamp it, and I’ll give you the money. I got it right here.”
He patted the breast pocket of his jacket, which was bulging in a comical, obvious way. $20,000 in cash. The bait.
I played my part. I looked at the stack of papers and I let my eyes go wide. I let my hands start to tremble.
“Wow, Jamal, that’s… that’s so many pages,” I stammered, my voice small and reedy. “I… I don’t… I don’t understand any of this. Can I… can I read it first?”
Jamal’s fake smile tightened. He was about to snap at me, but Ashley—Ashley just couldn’t help herself.
She let out a loud, theatrical sigh, loud enough for the notary to hear. She stood up, walked over, and put her arm around my shoulder. It wasn’t a hug. It was a gesture of complete and total control.
“Oh, Immi,” she cooed, her voice dripping with that sickly, sweet, condescending tone, the one she always used when she was about to be especially cruel. “Chung-ah, don’t… don’t try to read it. Seriously, it’s just… it’s all legal mambo-jumbo lawyer talk. ‘Herein after’ and ‘party of the first part’ and all that stuff. You wouldn’t understand any of it. It’s just a waste of our time.”
She patted my shoulder, her acrylic nails clicking on my shirt.
“It just says you agree to sell, we agree to buy. That’s it. Simple.”
You wouldn’t understand any of it.
That’s what she thought. That’s what they had always thought.
Immi, the simple admin. Immi, the Instacart driver. Immi, the family ATM, who was too dumb to know any better.
What they didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, was that my admin job at the dental clinic was just my day job. My real job, the one I did remotely from my laptop three nights a week for the past three years, was as a paralegal for a high-powered real estate law firm based in Chicago.
I specialized in contested estates. I had read, written, and analyzed contracts more complex than this before breakfast.
My eyes scanned the first page. It took me one and a half seconds to see the truth.
My blood didn’t just run cold. It turned to ice.
She was right. I didn’t understand.
I didn’t understand how they could be this… this stupidly, monstrously greedy.
Ashley had lied. This wasn’t a purchase agreement. This wasn’t a power of attorney for him to sell the house. The title in big, bold capital letters at the top of page one was:
DISCLAIMER OF INTEREST AND INHERITANCE.
My eyes flew down the page, catching the key phrases.
“Hereby permanently and irrevocably disclaims, renounces, and refuses to accept any and all rights, title, and interest in the estate of Altha Carter.”
They weren’t buying my share. They were tricking me into surrendering it. Giving it up. Forfeiting my $233,000 inheritance for nothing.
But where was the $20,000?
I found it.
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