Chapter 20: The Real Estate Agent

Maya woke on Friday to an email from Gerald Whitmore, the Willow Creek lawyer.

*Ms. Chen,*

*I wanted to inform you that a real estate agent named Richard Blackwell has been making inquiries about the Victorian property. He claims to represent a development consortium interested in purchasing the house. I informed him that the property is subject to the sixty-day residency requirement, but he was quite persistent.*

*I thought you should know.*

*Best,*

*Gerald*

Maya read the email twice. A development consortium. Someone had taken notice of the Victorian—someone with enough resources to hire agents and apply pressure.

She forwarded the email to Eli with a brief note: *Any idea who this is?*

His response came while she was getting dressed: *Blackwell is a Portland-based agent. Works for high-end developers. Never heard of him showing interest in Willow Creek before.*

Maya's instincts, honed by years of real estate dealings in San Francisco, prickled. The Victorian was valuable—prime land, historic architecture—but Willow Creek wasn't exactly a development hotspot. Why would a Portland consortium care about a single property in a small Oregon town?

She set the question aside for later and focused on the day ahead. She had a lunch meeting with the Henderson team, a site visit in the afternoon, and a flight to catch at 8 p.m. If she could survive the next twelve hours, she'd be back in Willow Creek by midnight.

---

The Henderson lunch was at a restaurant in the Marina—oysters and white wine and the kind of conversation that was more performance than business. Derek was there, charming and professional, showing no sign of the previous day's tension. Maya played her part, discussed design philosophy, laughed at appropriate moments, and counted the hours until she could leave.

The site visit was more interesting. The waterfront location for the Henderson residential complex was spectacular—direct bay views, proximity to transit, the particular San Francisco mix of urban density and natural beauty. Maya walked the perimeter, making notes, feeling the space the way she always did when assessing a project.

But her mind kept drifting. The Henderson site was expensive dirt with a luxury view. The Victorian was a living piece of history with a garden that was waiting to be reborn. The two projects weren't in the same category, and yet she couldn't stop thinking about which one she actually wanted to work on.

*What do you want to build?* The question kept surfacing. *What do you actually want to build?*

She didn't have an answer. Not yet. But the fact that she was asking was significant.

---

Maya was packing her bag in the office, getting ready to leave for the airport, when her phone rang. A Portland area code, unfamiliar number.

"Ms. Chen? This is Richard Blackwell. I understand Gerald Whitmore contacted you about my interest in the Victorian property."

"He did. And as he told you, the property isn't for sale."

"Everything is for sale at the right price, Ms. Chen." Blackwell's voice was smooth, professional, with the practiced cadence of a man used to wearing people down. "My clients are prepared to offer significantly above market value. Three million dollars for an immediate sale."

Maya's grip on the phone tightened. The Victorian was worth perhaps seven hundred thousand on the open market. Three million was an absurd offer—the kind of number that demanded attention.

"Your clients can offer whatever they like. The property is subject to a sixty-day residency requirement, and I have no intention of forfeiting it."

"Requirements can be negotiated. The original heir—your grandmother—left flexibility in the language. A good lawyer could argue—"

"Mr. Blackwell, I am a good lawyer's client, and I have no interest in arguing anything. The house belongs to me, I'm living in it, and I'm not selling."

A pause. When Blackwell spoke again, the smoothness had an edge.

"Ms. Chen, I'm going to be direct with you. My clients have significant resources and significant patience. They want this property, and they generally get what they want. It would be in your best interest to consider their offer carefully."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's advice. Good evening, Ms. Chen."

The line went dead.

Maya stared at her phone. The call had the feel of a move in a game she didn't know she was playing. A development consortium didn't offer three million dollars for a house worth seven hundred thousand unless they wanted something more than the house itself.

What did they want? The land? The location? Something in the house itself?

She texted Eli: *I just got a call from Blackwell. Three million dollar offer. Something's wrong about this.*

His response was immediate: *Don't take any action until we can talk. Getting on the plane?*

*In an hour.*

*I'll pick you up in Portland. We'll figure this out.*

Maya finished packing with hands that still trembled slightly. The Victorian had been a burden when she arrived—an inheritance she didn't want, a trap her grandmother had set to force her home. Now it felt like something worth protecting.

Now it felt like hers.

---

The flight to Portland was turbulent. Maya gripped the armrest and watched lightning flash outside the window and thought about storms.

Eli was waiting at the arrivals gate, which wasn't the plan—he'd said he'd be at the curb—but there he was, standing among the crowds with Hemingway at his side and an expression that mixed concern with something warmer.

"You look like hell," he said.

"First Derek, now you. My ego can't take this."

"Your ego can take anything. Come on."

They walked to the truck in relative silence, Maya processing the strangeness of being met at an airport by someone who cared where she was and whether she arrived safely. When had that last happened?

In the truck, with Hemingway's head on her shoulder and the familiar smell of leather and dog surrounding her, Maya felt the tension begin to drain from her body.

"Tell me about Blackwell," Eli said as he pulled onto I-5.

Maya recounted the phone call—the absurd offer, the veiled threat, the sense of something larger moving behind the scenes.

"Three million," Eli repeated. "For a house worth a fraction of that."

"It doesn't make sense. Unless—"

"Unless they want something else."

"But what? The Victorian is beautiful, but it's not unique. There are dozens of historic properties like it in Oregon."

Eli was quiet for a while, navigating the highway.

"The Sullivan connection," he said finally.

"What about it?"

"James Sullivan came from one of the wealthiest families in Oregon. If he was really Rose's husband—if there's documentation of that marriage—then there might be inheritance implications. Property rights. Claims against the Sullivan estate."

"But Catherine knows about the marriage. She's cooperating with us."

"Catherine knows. But the rest of the family might not. And the Sullivan family has business interests, real estate holdings, connections to developers..." Eli glanced at her. "What if someone in the Sullivan network found out about the marriage and wants to suppress it? What if buying the Victorian is about controlling the evidence?"

Maya's mind raced. The marriage certificate was in the cedar chest in Rose's bedroom. The letters were in the attic. If someone wanted to destroy evidence of the secret marriage, purchasing the house would give them access.

"But why?" Maya asked. "The marriage was eighty years ago. James is presumed dead. What could possibly threaten the Sullivans now?"

"I don't know. But I think we need to find out."

They drove through the night, the Oregon landscape invisible outside the windows. Maya leaned against the cold glass and watched the darkness flow past and felt, for the first time in days, the anxiety of someone who realizes they've stumbled into something much bigger than a family mystery.

The Victorian was waiting at the end of this road. And inside it, the secrets that someone, somewhere, wanted badly enough to spend three million dollars burying.