I arrived at Harland’s downtown office shortly before lunch.
Not because Sloane was there.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
I had a meeting regarding another property—a converted warehouse on the west side where we were negotiating a commercial lease with an architecture firm.
The meeting was real.
The timing was convenient.
Harland occupied the twelfth floor of a steel-and-glass office building. The reception area smelled faintly of coffee and expensive carpet cleaner.
The elevator doors opened.
And there she was.
Sloane sat in one of the gray reception chairs with her coat beside her and an untouched paper cup on the table.
Her hair, normally perfect, was pulled into a loose knot.
Dark circles sat beneath her eyes.
She looked up.
For half a second, surprise softened her face.
Then suspicion replaced it.
“What are you doing here?”
I adjusted the strap of my bag.
“I have a meeting.”
“With who?”
“People.”
She stood.
“Avery.”
“Sloane.”
“You know something.”
Not a question.
I glanced at the receptionist.
She was suddenly very interested in her computer.
Sloane stepped closer.
“I’ve been here for three hours.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Act like you have no idea what’s happening.”
I looked around the lobby.
“Your lease was terminated.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“How do you know that?”
“You told everyone.”
“I mean, how did you know it was legal? Last night you said the notice was binding.”
“I work in property.”
Sloane gave a short, humorless laugh.
“You manage a few rentals.”
There it was.
Even now.
“Something like that.”
She lowered her voice.
“Listen. If you know someone here, tell them I need five minutes with the owner.”
“What would you say?”
“That I’m a perfect tenant.”
“You kicked a wall last night.”
Her face changed.
“How do you know that?”
The receptionist stopped typing.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But I noticed.
I shrugged.
“Leon mentioned it.”
“Leon?”
“The night concierge.”
“You know his name?”
“I’ve lived there a long time.”
Sloane stared at me.
For the first time, I saw something move behind her eyes.
A possibility.
Not the full truth.
Just a crack.
Then she dismissed it.
“Whatever. I need the owner to understand I have nowhere to go.”
“You have money.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I shouldn’t have to move.”
“Why?”
“Because I pay rent.”
“So do millions of people.”
“I have rights.”
“You signed the redevelopment rider.”
Her face went still.
“How do you know what I signed?”
There it was again.
Another clue landing right in front of her.
I could almost watch her mind reject it.
“You probably saw Mom’s copy,” she decided.
I didn’t correct her.
Sloane rubbed her forehead.
“Can you help or not?”
I thought about the group chat.
“Living in that cheap apartment. Pathetic.”
“You should be apartment hunting.”
Her expression hardened.
“This is about last night.”
I said nothing.
“Oh my God.”
Her voice rose.
“You did complain.”
Several employees glanced toward us.
“I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“You got offended, called someone you know here, and now we’re being thrown out.”
I almost admired the confidence required to invent a story and immediately believe it.
“You think I convinced the owner of an entire apartment building to renovate three floors because you hurt my feelings?”
Sloane opened her mouth.
Closed it.
When put that way, even she heard how ridiculous it sounded.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Marla appeared through the secured hallway door.
She saw Sloane first.
Then me.
For one dangerous second, her expression shifted.
Professional recognition.
Sloane noticed.
I saw it.
Her head turned slowly between us.
“You two know each other.”
Marla recovered instantly.
“Ms. Quinn is a client.”
Sloane looked at me.
“What kind of client?”
I smiled.
“Property management.”
Her jaw tightened.
Marla said, “Ms. Mercer, as I explained earlier, ownership is not available for tenant meetings.”
“I have less than twelve hours.”
“I understand.”
“Then give me the owner’s name.”
“I cannot disclose private ownership information.”
Sloane looked at me again.
This time differently.
“Do you know?”
I picked up the visitor badge waiting for me at reception.
“What?”
“Who owns the Morrison?”
Behind Sloane, the receptionist was pretending not to listen with such intensity it was almost impressive.
I met my sister’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Sloane inhaled sharply.
“Who?”
I slipped the badge onto my jacket.
“That’s confidential.”
Then Marla opened the secured door for me.
I walked through.
The lock clicked behind us.
I glanced back through the glass.
Sloane remained completely still.
And judging from the expression on her face, the first real piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into place.
### Part 6
My phone started ringing before I reached the conference room.
Sloane.
I silenced it.
Then Mom.
Then Sloane again.
Marla glanced at the screen and raised an eyebrow.
“You may have accelerated the discovery process.”
“I noticed.”
We walked down the hallway.
Employees greeted me as we passed.
“Morning, Avery.”
“Hey, Avery.”
“Congratulations on the Stanton deal.”
I saw Sloane through the glass reception wall.
She was watching.
Every greeting made her face paler.
Marla whispered, “This is painful.”
“For whom?”
She gave me a look.
At the conference room, my partners were already seated.
I spent the next hour discussing lease terms, renovation allowances, and financing.
Normal business.
That was what felt strangest.
While my family’s entire understanding of me collapsed twelve feet away, I still had work to do.
When the meeting ended, Marla handed me her tablet.
“She left.”
“When?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“What did she say?”
“That she suddenly had somewhere else to be.”
I smiled.
The family group chat answered the rest.
Sloane:
“AVERY IS AT HARLAND.”
Mom:
“Why?”
Sloane:
“Employees KNOW HER.”
Aunt Colleen:
“She works in property management. Of course they know her.”
Sloane:
“No. Not like that.”
Then:
“Marla called her a CLIENT.”
Mom:
“What does that mean?”
Sloane:
“I don’t know.”
Jenna had finally replied.
“Maybe you should ask Avery instead of assuming.”
Sloane:
“I HAVE BEEN ASKING.”
I almost laughed.
No.
She had been accusing.
Different thing.
When I returned home later that afternoon, there was someone sitting outside my apartment door.
Mom.
Two suitcases stood beside her.
She rose the second I stepped from the elevator.
“Avery.”
I stopped.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You could’ve called.”
“You blocked my calls.”
“I stopped answering. I haven’t blocked you yet.”
Her expression suggested she thought the distinction was rude.
“Can I come inside?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
I had never told Mom no quite that plainly before.
She glanced toward my door.
“This will only take a few minutes.”
“We can talk here.”
The hallway smelled of fresh paint from a recent touch-up.
Somewhere nearby, a vacuum cleaner hummed.
Mom lowered her voice.
“Do you know the owner?”
“Yes.”
Her lips parted.
“Sloane said that.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t share private business information.”
“Avery, stop playing games.”
I felt something in me harden.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You spent years treating my life like entertainment. Now you want professional courtesy?”
Mom rubbed her temples.
“I already told you those messages were jokes.”
“You didn’t tell me anything. You laughed.”
“I sent emojis.”
“Exactly.”
She looked frustrated.
“You’re being overly sensitive.”
That was Mom’s favorite trick.
If she hurt you, the problem became your reaction.
“Sloane was teasing.”
“She called me pathetic.”
“She’s your sister.”
“What does that change?”
“Families tease each other.”
“Do they?”
Mom stared at me.
I continued.
“Do you remember when I quit graduate school?”
Her expression shifted.
“That was years ago.”
“You said I would end up homeless.”
“I was worried.”
“You told Aunt Colleen I had wasted my potential.”
“I wanted better for you.”
“Better than what?”
She gestured toward my apartment door.
“This.”
I nearly laughed.
“This?”
“This lifestyle. You’re intelligent, Avery. You could have had so much more.”
There it was.
Even now.
Standing beside suitcases because she had lost access to one of my properties, Mom still believed my life was a disappointment.
I reached into my bag.
Not for documents.
Not for some dramatic reveal.
Just my keys.
“Mom, you should find a hotel.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re not even going to let me stay here?”
“No.”
“I’m your mother.”
“I know.”
“I have nowhere to go tonight.”
“You have several credit cards and enough money for a hotel.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No. The point is that you want my home now because yours is inconvenient.”
Her expression tightened.
“I cannot believe how cold you’ve become.”
The elevator opened behind her.
Sloane stepped out.
She had clearly been crying.
The second she saw us, she froze.
Then her gaze moved to my door.
To Mom’s luggage.
Back to me.
“I called the city records office,” she said.
Mom turned.
“Sloane, not now.”
“No.”
Sloane’s voice trembled.
“I looked up the Morrison.”
My hand tightened around my keys.
She stared straight at me.
“The ownership company is Quinn Urban Holdings.”
Mom went completely still.
Sloane swallowed.
Then asked the question both of them already knew the answer to.
“What exactly is Quinn Urban Holdings, Avery?”
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