Kelsey noticed first.
“What is it?” she asked.
He did not answer.
He turned another page, slower this time.
She crossed the kitchen, snatched the folder from him, and looked down.
Her expression shifted so quickly it almost looked theatrical.
Confusion, irritation, fear, then rage.
“Wait a minute,” she said.
Nobody moved.
My mother stopped unwrapping a vase.
My father closed his eyes.
Kelsey read out loud in pieces, like the words were insulting her personally.
“Buyer: Jenna Marie Whitaker. Purchase price: $1 million. Closing date—”
She looked up at me.
“Why is your name on our house?”
I leaned against the counter and folded my arms.
“Because it is my house.”
The sentence landed harder than a shout.
Ryan whispered, “Jenna.”
Kelsey slammed the folder onto the island.
“No, absolutely not. This is not funny.”
“I agree,” I said. “It is not funny.”
My mother began crying immediately, but not the happy kind this time.
“There has to be some confusion.”
My father muttered, “Diane, I told you we needed to slow this down.”
Kelsey spun toward him.
“You promised us a house.”
“We promised help,” he said. “We talked about a deposit, maybe a town home. Not this.”
Ryan put both hands on his head.
“Mom said it was handled.”
“Mom was not the buyer,” I said. “Dad was not the buyer. You were not the buyer. Kelsey was not the buyer. I was.”
Kelsey pointed at me.
“You set us up.”
I laughed once, very quietly.
“I bought a house. You moved into it without checking the deed.”
“You knew we thought it was ours,” she snapped.
“I knew you were acting like it was yours. That is different.”
Ryan looked sick.
“Why didn’t you say something when you got here?”
I turned to him.
“Why didn’t you ask why I was here?”
