The recruiter, a warm-voiced woman named Sarah Pembroke, sounded delighted. “Valerie, that’s wonderful. We can move quickly if needed. Could you start in three weeks?”
“Yes,” I said.
There was a tiny silence in which she likely waited for an explanation. I did not give one.
By three, Cassie’s cousin Caleb was standing in my living room with a tablet and a laser measure. He worked for a firm that specialized in fast cash purchases of inherited properties, divorce houses, probate estates, anything people needed liquid more than sentimental. He wore expensive sneakers, a navy polo, and the expression of a man who knew exactly how much a house was worth to one person and how little that mattered to the market.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, moving through the foyer. “Original staircase, stained glass intact, kitchen update tasteful. If you listed traditionally and waited sixty to ninety days, maybe one point six, one point seven in the right season. Cash close, ten days, no repairs, probably one point three.”
A week earlier, the number would have offended me. That day it looked like oxygen.
“I’ll take one point three,” I said.
He studied me, perhaps expecting negotiation. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”