“Hi,” she said. “I’m here for the eleven o’clock listing shoot—”
“There is no authorized listing,” I said.
She stopped moving.
My mother wiped her face and looked at the camera case like it was the final insult, the one too strange to even fit inside the hurt she was already carrying.
I walked toward the photographer and lowered my voice, because she was not the villain in this story. “The house belongs legally to my parents under a trust. They’ve just been locked out by someone with no authority. I’d appreciate it if you documented your arrival time and the fact that you were told this was a live short-term rental prep.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
Daniel finally found his voice. “You don’t need to drag strangers into this.”
I turned. “You already did.”
The photographer took three steps backward. “I’m leaving,” she said. “And I’m canceling with my office.”
“Please email whatever order information you received,” Joanna said through the phone. “We may need it.”
The woman nodded like she’d just been deputized into a crime she wanted no part of and retreated to her car.