Page 39 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
I’m not actually going to tell her anything about Tommy Tits or Megan Face unless it’s public knowledge. Everybody knows Tommy beats his wife, that he knocked her head into the bathtub and cracked it open while she was pregnant, that she was taken to the hospital by our neighbor in the next duplex and they both lied about it.
But anything else? Snitches get stitches, remember? Literally, in a lot of cases.
“Like I said, my name is Emma Jean Thompson,” she continues, and I do my best to maintain a neutral facial expression. I’m quickly running out of patience, and forty bucks doesn’t buy much of my time. I have more lucrative ways to spend it. “I’m actually here to ask about the recent sale of this property.”
“The sale?” I ask, glancing over at our neighbor’s place. We might share a wall with them, but there’s nothing similar about their half. It’s even a different paint color. The landlord who owns it has been squeezing top price rent out of inhabitants who can’t get a place elsewhere because of their records, employment history (because they likely don’t work somewhere that gives W2s), or whatever else.
I didn’t imagine that money-grubbing prick would ever sell.
“I understand it’s not both sides of the property, just the one,” Emma continues, and even though her voice is soft, almost saccharine sweet, I get the idea that she’s one determined mother. It’s there in the set of her small shoulders, in the way her eyes bore into me, the almost comical way she holds her hands, as if she’s forcing them with every ounce of her will to stay relaxed. “But I was curious if you knew anything about it. The property sold for much less than the market value, and it’s not the only one on the street. Did you know that four of your neighbors have sold their properties recently?”
I didn’t know that, but I school my expression to keep Emma from realizing it.
“So what? Does that matter to me?”
“It should,” she says, and the strength of the conviction in her voice is what really gives me pause. “Have you ever heard of Archer Realty Investments?”
I have. More times than I’d care to admit. Not only are they the douchebags who just built the ‘affordable housing apartments’ downtown (the lowest rent in that building is double my grandmother’s mortgage), but they’re the same company who’s been sending all those suit-wearing assholes to talk to us about selling. Not just that, but letters and phone calls, too. It’s bordering on harassment in my opinion.
“A company of questionable morals with a home base in Los Angeles. What about them?” I’m starting to get a sour feeling in my belly, a premonition if you will. I glance up at the gray storm clouds overhead, wondering if the intermittent drizzle isn’t about to turn into a ceaseless downpour. I drop my gaze back to Emma Jean and she nods.
“That’s them. They’re buying up any and all properties in the boundaries of what you’d consider the Prescott or Four Corners neighborhoods. Single family homes, vacant land, apartment buildings, businesses, doesn’t matter. That’s who your neighbors sold their property to.”
I don’t correct her in that Tommy Tits and Megan Face—two convicted felons with questionable records—didn’t sell shit. They’re about to find their asses either under the thumb of a corporate landlord or evicted real quick.
“I see,” I say, but I don’t. I’m starting to second-guess myself with this girl. Maybe I should’ve let her get mugged? “And what does any of that have to do with you?”
“I’m working on a story,” Emma says, and it takes me a minute to figure that out.
“You’re a reporter?” I ask, and this time, it’s her that pauses before answering.
“I’m an investigative journalist.” She sounds damn proud of that fact, too. “Or at least, I’m trying to be. I’ve got my eye on Archer Realty Investments right now. It isn’t uncommon for a company like that to take interest in an up-and-coming area, but—”
“Up-and-coming?” I ask with a harsh laugh. “Oh, Miss Emma Jean, I wouldn’t call Prescott an up-and-coming area.” The other neighborhood she mentioned—Four Corners—is almost as bad. Maybe worse on certain days, like full moons or Friday nights or something. “But you think Archer’s up to something?”
“I’d love to get any information you might have about your neighbors and how they might’ve been convinced to sell or, better yet, your own personal experiences.” Emma Jean glances back at our house and then turns to me again. “Or, if not you, then whoever’s the head of your household.”
I immediately know that I don’t want this woman talking to my grandmother. It’ll only upset her, especially if Emma Jean tells her all the same things she’s just told me.
“We’ve had a half-dozen employees in fancy suits and even fancier cars show up here trying to buy our half of the duplex,” I admit, certain that none of this information could be used against my family in any way. If I thought it could, I’d tell Emma Jean to eat shit and escort her off the property myself.
