Part 2
The clerk’s name was Jasmine Okafor. I know this because when your life cracks open in public, you remember odd little mercies with embarrassing precision: silver nail polish, lavender hand lotion, the nameplate on a county counter.
Jasmine printed the lease agreement and the quitclaim deed and slid them to me one at a time, like she didn’t want me to choke on both at once.
“The lease was filed with the initial complaint,” she said. “Your parents are listed as landlords. You’re listed as a month-to-month tenant. Rent is twenty-four hundred a month.”
I barked out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Twenty-four hundred? They made me an expensive tenant in my own house.”
She almost smiled, then stopped when she saw my face.
The lease looked polished. Too polished. Somebody had used a decent template, dropped in my address, set out terms, added late fees and maintenance clauses, even included language about garbage pickup and lawn care. If I hadn’t known it was fake, I might have admired the thoroughness.
