In front of Lee Realty, a billboard-size sign says LET RICHARD LEE LEAD YOU HOME. A smiling headshot of the Asian guy at my dad’s funeral is superimposed on a collage of beautiful homes. Even though Richard Lee grew up with my parents, I can’t imagine they were headed for anything like his success. I get out of my car, trying not to think about how my gas gauge is hovering near E.
The office is spacious, all clean lines and windows. Just walking across the long expanse of mustard-gold carpet to the front desk makes me nervous. A half wall of marble, topped with a potted yellow orchid, separates me from the receptionist. She’s talking on her headset.
When she says, “Yes?” it takes me a minute to realize she’s addressing me. Her eyes are still on her computer screen.
“Um, hi. I want to talk to someone about renting 1707 Terrace?” My stomach clenches.
“Your name?”
“Olivia Reinhart.”
She finds an application and hands it over with a pen, all without her eyes ever leaving her screen. “Fill this out. I’ll tell Christina you’re here.”
I sit on the edge of one of four pristine white upholstered chairs clustered around a gleaming coffee table and use a copy of Architectural Digest as a makeshift desk.
I have just checked the “no” boxes for bankruptcy filings, evictions, convictions, and “not paying rent,” when a man’s voice calls out my name. It’s Richard Lee. Everything about him looks expensive, from his shoes to his haircut.
I stand up. “I’m Olivia Reinhart.”
My name clearly means nothing to him, which is a relief. He stretches out his hand. “Richard Lee. Christina’s on the phone, and everyone else is at lunch.” He looks around, his forehead creasing. “So your family wants to rent the property? Your mom?”
“No. Just me.” I hold out my application.
He doesn’t reach for it. Instead, his smile vanishes like a magic trick. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Olivia, but how old are you?”
“Seventeen, Richard, but I’m emancipated.” I use his first name to let him know we’re on the same level, two adults discussing a problem. “I’ve been renting an apartment in Portland, so I have a track record. And I’m transferring from the Burlingame Fred Meyer to the store down here.”
“I’ll be honest with you, because you seem like a nice kid. But you’re still a kid. The last few years, the housing market has been tough. I’ve taken chances on people who seemed nice, and I’ve gotten burned.”
I try to sound calm. “Like I said, I have a job. And I’ve been paying rent for months with no problem.” My Portland landlord is keeping my deposit, so he should still give me a good reference.
“As property managers, we’re on the hook if someone skips out or trashes the place. And we only get a small percentage of the rent.”
“Yes, but if a rental stays empty, any percentage of zero is still zero,” I point out.
He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “And then when people can’t make rent, they get roommates, so there’s two or three times as much wear and tear for the same amount of money.”
“It’s just me. And it will stay just me. I promise.”
“Do you know how many promises I hear? I’m sorry, but—”
I don’t let him finish turning me down. “Okay, so the market’s tough. And this house has already been sitting empty for months. With the murders back in the news, who’s going to want to rent it now?”
He flinches a little. “You know about what happened?”
“Who doesn’t?” I stretch the truth a little. “It’s the first thing I heard when I stopped by to look at the house.”
Even though there’s no one else in the lobby, he looks around. “Come on back and let’s talk about it.”
I follow him down a hall. His office has a view of the valley through floor-to-ceiling windows. I sit in one of the visitor chairs in front of his desk.
“Nobody died at that house.” Richard smooths the front of his elegant suit as he sits. “Those deaths happened miles away.” On the polished expanse of his desk, there’s just a sleek silver laptop and a penholder made of a can covered in burlap and lumpy felt flowers.
He must be a father, which for some reason surprises me. Something twists in my chest as I remember a series of school craft projects we were supposed to bring home to our parents, or at least our moms. First I gave them to Grandma. Later I sometimes handed them over to a foster mom. More often I stuffed them in the trash on my way out of school.
I force myself to persist. “Still, it’s super creepy. Plus I heard that that lady’s mom really did die there. Right in the kitchen.” I push away the heartbreak of finding my grandma dead, turn it into the horror it would be for a stranger. “Who wants to live in a place associated with so much death?”
He closes his eyes for a second. “Look, I was good friends with the people who were killed. Especially Terry. So they’re not just dead people to me.” He focuses on me again. “They’re not just gossip.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t let it rest, not when he might know something. “Why do you think they were killed?”
His words are low, as if pitched for his own ears. “Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He is quiet for a long time, then nods his head. “I’m going to take a chance on you, Olivia, but don’t make me sorry.”
I start to grin.
Then he says, “The rent is eight fifty a month. I’ll just need first and last. We can take a credit or debit card or a check, although we’ll need two days for it to clear.” He looks at me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to fall to my knees in gratitude and then whip out my wallet.
The house is now slipping from my grasp. In my bank account, there’s a little more than a thousand. “Could I make a down payment and then pay you the rest over a couple of weeks?” After all, I’ll get it back. Eventually. Minus his company’s 7 percent management fee.
His voice sharpens. “What? No. That’s not how this works. Don’t tell me how much you want to live there unless you also have the money to pay for it.” His features pinch together. “I have a perfectly nice studio apartment I could probably get you into. It’s six fifty a month. Why do you need a whole house?”
“I don’t want to live in an apartment anymore. Do you know what it’s like to be surrounded by other people all the time?” Look at this office, at his suit that probably cost more than my car. He can’t know what it’s like to hear everyone’s arguments and flushing toilets. “Now I want some privacy. And no one’s going to want to rent that house right now, not with the news, not when there are so many other rentals. The longer that house stays empty, the worse it will look. But if you let me rent it, I promise I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it look like a home again.”
After a full minute of silence, he says, “As you point out, the house does need some sprucing up. I could let you paint the interior in exchange for the last month’s rent. But it has to be a careful job or the deal’s off. And I would need you to sign an agreement to that effect.”
“Okay. You’ve got a deal.”
Richard tilts his head and looks at me more closely. “Sure you don’t want to go into the real estate business, Olivia? Because your talents are wasted at Fred Meyer.”