Thirty-Six Pages of Bank Receipts and the Chicago Mortgage Transfer I Finally Canceled
“Naomi, think of your father,” Margaret said, her voice trembling as she leaned toward the screen.
“He spent twenty years paying for this place.”
“My father would have paid his own bills,” I said firmly.
Brent began yelling another threat into his microphone, his face flushed red against the glow of the TV behind him, but I didn’t stay to hear the rest.
I slid my mouse down to the floating toolbar along the bottom of the screen.
I set the cursor right on top of the red end-call button.
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