It was a separate document, stapled to the very back. A single handwritten page.
It was a personal loan agreement. It stated that Jamal Carter was lending me, Immi Carter, the sum of $20,000 and that I agreed to repay the full amount plus twenty percent interest within twelve months.
I had to read it twice.
They weren’t buying my share for $20,000.
They were stealing my share for free and then putting me $20,000 in their debt.
It was so much worse than I had imagined. It was so much better.
This wasn’t just a bad deal. This wasn’t just manipulation. This was criminal fraud.
This was a slam-dunk case. Mr. Washington was going to be delighted.
I let my breath hitch. I let a fake tear well up in my eye.
“It… it looks… it looks really complicated,” I whispered, looking up at them, my face a perfect mask of bewildered terror. “I… I don’t… I don’t understand it.”
“Immi,” Jamal finally snapped. His patience was gone. “We don’t have time for this. Just sign the paper.”
“Okay. Okay, I will,” I yelped, acting startled. I grabbed the cheap floral pen. “I’m just… I’m just so nervous. My… my hands are shaking.”
And right on cue, I fumbled.
“Oh!” I gasped, as the pen slipped from my trembling fingers. It bounced off the table and clattered onto the dirty, cracked linoleum floor.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. I’m so… I’m so stupid. Let me get it.”
I bent down, disappearing behind the folding table. And in that one perfect hidden moment, my hand darted to my jacket pocket.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb was already resting on the Voice Memos icon.
I pressed it.
I hit the big red record button. The timer started. 00:01. 00:02.
I slid the phone, screen dark, back into my shirt pocket, the microphone pointing right at them.
I came back up, my face flushed, holding the pen like a prize.
“Got it. Sorry.”
I stood there, my hand hovering over the first signature line, the one that would give away my inheritance.
I looked at Ashley one last time, playing the part of the world’s biggest fool.
“Okay, so just… just so I’m clear,” I said, my voice watery. “I… I sign this and this is for me to get the $20,000 for my part of Big Mama’s house, right? That… that’s what this is?”
Ashley let out a sound, a growl of pure, unadulterated impatience.
She was so close she could taste the $700,000.
“Yes, Immi,” she yelled, her sharp white voice echoing in the tiny, quiet office. The notary didn’t even flinch. “That is exactly what it is. You sign the damn paper. We give you the 20 grand for the house. Now sign it. We have lunch reservations in Buckhead.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
I looked down at the signature line. A small, tiny, secret smile touched my lips. A smile they couldn’t see.
My hand, which had been trembling so badly just a second ago, was now perfectly, beautifully steady.
“Okay,” I said again, my voice full of fake, broken relief. “I’m signing.”
And the pen moved across the paper.
The next morning, I was not in a strip mall. I was on the fortieth floor of the tallest, shiniest glass building in Buckhead, the heart of Atlanta’s old money and new wealth.
The office of Hakeem Washington was a world of quiet, expensive power. The carpets were thick. The art on the walls was real. The view stretched all the way to Stone Mountain.
I sat in a soft black leather chair opposite his massive mahogany desk. I was not the same woman from yesterday. The old work polo was gone. I was wearing a simple dark gray sheath dress I bought for $800 that morning. My hair was pulled back in a sleek, severe bun.
I felt calm.
I placed my phone on his desk. The wood was so polished it looked like a black mirror.
“They took the bait,” I said.
My voice didn’t echo. The room was designed to absorb sound.
Mr. Washington, immaculate in a three-piece charcoal suit, leaned forward. He didn’t smile. Not yet.
“You’re certain?”
I pressed play on the voice memo.
Ashley’s sharp, white voice, full of impatience and greed, suddenly filled the luxurious, quiet office.
“Yes, Immi, that is exactly what it is. You sign the damn paper, we give you the 20 grand for the house. Now sign it. We have lunch reservations in Buckhead.”
The recording clicked off.
A slow, satisfied smile finally spread across Hakeem Washington’s face. He leaned back in his chair.
“Textbook,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “That is textbook prosecutable criminal fraud, conspiracy, wire fraud since you called them. Oh, this is beautiful, Ms. Carter. Absolutely beautiful.”
“They… they didn’t just try to buy my share for $20,000,” I said, my voice cold and even. “They tricked me into signing a disclaimer of interest for nothing. And then they tried to make me sign a loan for the $20,000.”
Mr. Washington’s smile vanished. He just stared at me.
“They… they did what?”
I slid the stack of papers I had “accidentally” taken from the notary’s office across his desk.
He put on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses and read the top pages. His eyes widened. He actually let out a low whistle.
“My,” he said. “Your family is ambitious and incredibly, incredibly stupid. This isn’t just a slam dunk. This is… this is a public execution.”
He folded his hands.
“Well, the trap is set. The evidence is secured. Now, we just have to send the invitations to the party.”
I nodded.
“I have three calls to make first.”
He gestured to the phone.
“My office is yours.”
I picked up my cell phone. My first call was to the one person who mattered.
I dialed. She picked up on the second ring.
“Ms. Evelyn. Hi, it’s me. Yes, I’m okay. I… I’m more than okay. I promise.”
My voice softened, the ice melting completely.
“I have a strange question for you. That apartment building you’re in, the Harmony Senior Lofts. Do you… do you like it there?”
I listened. I heard her small, confused laugh.
“Like it, child? It’s a roof. The elevator’s been broken for six years, and my new neighbors play that loud music. But it’s a roof.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I just… I saw a ‘For Rent’ sign in the window of the unit next to yours. I was just thinking…”
I paused.
“Your lease is up at the end of the month, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. They already sent the renewal. Want to raise my rent by $50.”
“Good,” I said, cutting her off but gently. “Don’t sign it. Whatever you do, do not sign that renewal. Can you promise me?”
“Immi, child, what… what is going on? If I don’t sign—”
“Just trust me, Ms. Evelyn,” I said, my voice warm and firm. “I have… I have a surprise for you. A good one. Just… just trust me for one more week.”
“Okay. All right, baby. I trust you.”
“I love you, Ms. Evelyn.”
“I love you too, child.”
I hung up.
I took a deep breath. One down.
I dialed the second number. A direct line. My voice changed. The warmth was gone. It was replaced by pure, cold business.
This was the $45 million voice.
“Yes. Hello. May I speak to Mr. Harrison, please? Yes, I’ll hold.”
I waited, my eyes meeting Mr. Washington’s. He was watching me with a new, deep respect.
“Mr. Harrison. Hello. My name is Immani Carter. I’m the principal of the new Carter–Altha Foundation. Yes, that Carter–Altha. We spoke to your associate last week. Wonderful. I’m calling to confirm I’m very interested in your fund for Black women-owned startups. Yes, I’ve reviewed the portfolio. I’m ready to move.”
I paused.
“I’d like to open our position. Let’s start the initial investment with $5 million.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“Yes. Five. Million. I’ll have my legal team, led by Hakeem Washington, send over the wire instructions this afternoon. A pleasure doing business with you too.”
I hung up.
Mr. Washington was just staring at me.
“Five million,” he said, a slow smile spreading. “You don’t start small, do you, Ms. Carter?”
I looked out the window at the entire city spread out below me like a map.
“I’ve been small my whole life, Mr. Washington,” I said quietly. “I’m done with it.”
I took one more breath. Now the final call.
I dialed my mother’s number. My face settled into a mask of cold, hard ice. Then I let it crumble.
I summoned the old Immi. The weak, stupid, watery-eyed girl.
She picked up.
“Immi, what is it now? You got your money, didn’t you? Jamal said you signed.”
My voice came out as a desperate, terrified wail.
“Mom. Mom. Oh my God, Mom, I… I think I made a terrible mistake.”
“What? What are you talking about?” she snapped.
“The papers,” I cried, letting a real sob catch in my throat. “I… I read the papers, Mom. The… the one at the end. It… it says it’s a loan. It says I have to pay Jamal back with… with interest. I… I don’t get to keep the 20,000, Mom. I… I think… I think Jamal and Ashley… I think they tricked me.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end.
“Lord, child, you are so stupid sometimes.”
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