Chapter Twenty-Two

Maren

"I can't believe you're leaving me in this shit hole."

Nina leans against the counter as I clean the espresso machine—for the last time. It's been two months since I started teaching music, and what was supposed to be a side gig, is now a full-time career. I have twelve private students that meet with me on a weekly basis, and a group lesson I hold every Saturday. After today, I will be able to double the number of private lessons, plus have the time I need to focus again on my music.

In my own home.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Maren Huerta has the keys to a house. A real house. One with a backyard and a fireplace and no shared walls. Okay, so the backyard is the size of my car, the fireplace plugs into the wall, and the rent is a small fortune. But it's a house. I have a family room where I plan to hold my lessons, a huge bedroom with room for all my guitars, and a large walk-in closet I'll fill with my old clothes, plus some hand-me-downs from Nina that I snagged on a donation run.

Let's just say, life is pretty sweet.

Even if I can't talk to… Nope, not going to even say his name. Life is sweet, the end.

Okay, fine. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't keep tabs on him. I mean, he's not exactly out of the public eye. He has a goddamn billboard that looks over the freeway running through the center of Sunset Bay, for fuck's sake. I've also stalked his social media, but all it shows are homes and businesses he's sold, and I'm pretty sure it's an influencer behind the house and key emojis.

So I'm keeping tabs, but there are no tabs to keep. At the very least, I know he's alive and breathing, and we're still not talking to each other.

My choice. This was my choice.

"Want me to grab some extra boxes from the back," Nina asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah, and grab the extra newspapers while you're at it," I say. I finish the cleaning job, and then look around the shop. Susan never showed up for my last day, but she did send me a card with a gift card in it, $15 for Insomniacs. It's the thought that counts.

"Face it, you're going to be so bored when you're not waking up at godawful hours to make overpriced drinks for the work rush."

"Oh, definitely," I joke. But inside, I know I will. This is the only job I've ever had, and besides music, the only thing I know. While I'm moving in the right direction, a part of my identity is wrapped up in this place. Who will I be when I'm not a barista?

A musician.

I smile, then turn to Nina and engulf her in a completely uncharacteristic hug. Neither one of us is the touchy feely type, and she stiffens in my embrace. But then she reaches around and hugs me too. I even hear her sniff, and I pull back to make sure. She shakes her head, wiping at her moist eyes.

"I hate you," she says, then shakes out a laugh.

"I hate you too."

I'm going to miss living with Nina. I know—weird. But it's true. These past two months, she's kind of been my rock. Don't get me wrong, Claire is still my best friend, and Nina is still a bitch. But she also cleared a space in her home so I could hold music lessons. She stocked the freezer with Chunky Monkey ice cream—my favorite—because my mopey mood was bumming her out and I might as well get fat. She's even made me start performing again. Rather, she told me if I didn't get my ass off the couch and on a stage, she was going to put hair remover in my shampoo. But once I was on stage, she was sitting in the audience, cheering me on. She even sat with Claire, even though neither one of them is a fan of the other.

Plus, she's helping me move. I thought she'd balk at the request, but she's been actually helpful. Not the twirl her hair kind of helpful while I do all the work, but actually helping. I thought that maybe she was just in a hurry to get me out of her house, but she assured me she wasn't. In fact, she said she was going to miss me.

Okay, she didn't say it. But it was implied in the way she grumbled over who was going to make the coffee now that I was leaving.

We lock up the shop, then juggle boxes and a stack of the Sunset Times as we make our way to my car. I toss the newspapers on the backseat, then do a double take when I see a familiar building peeking from behind one of the sections. I brush the top newspaper out of the way, and there's my old apartment building, back when it was still standing. I drove by there a few weeks ago, and the place had been leveled as if it had never existed at all. But there it is in black and white. I can even see my apartment with my iconic black curtains, dating the picture to sometime before I moved out .

In big, bold letters, the headline reads "Late Tech Genius Discovered to be Penniless Slumlord."

"Are we going or what?" Nina asks. I rifle through the newspaper, then find an identical section. I toss it at her.

"Read this," I say, then climb next to her into the front seat.

In the early 2000s, Benjamin Wright left the tech world in favor of real estate. He began snatching up empty lots as quickly as they hit the market, with crews that would erect contemporary apartment buildings in mere weeks. By the end of 2005, he owned 13 apartment complexes that housed hundreds of families. His modern style attracted people from all over California and beyond, and some of his apartment buildings have been featured in magazine like Oceanside Homes and Savor California.

Wright passed away this year, but not before he sold all his commercial properties to Southshore Management Group, a well-known Sunset Bay brokerage owned by Malcolm Dermot, who then flipped the real estate to DMD Construction. Each of these properties are now in various forms of demolition, which makes us wonder if Southshore Management Group and DMD Construction discovered what we have—that each of Wright's swiftly built homes are full of cut corners and structural flaws that have resulted in dangerous living conditions.

An anonymous tip has led the Sunset Times to uncover a long list of violations that include missing permits, cases of black mold, cockroach and rat infestations, leaking ceilings, sewage backups, and missing weather stripping, plus years of neglect despite pleas from residents. The mounting violations have resulted in rapid deterioration of even the newest of Wright's buildings, from his tri-level fleet of beach homes in Santa Barbara to his modest apartment buildings in Sunset Bay.

The car is silent as we read, except for the occasional turning of pages. I barely breathe as I read through everything. How Benji made some bad business moves that cost him his fortune. How he cleverly hid his financial situation as he turned to real estate as his saving grace. He thought the rents would save him, but the upkeep proved to be too much—cracked pipes, roach infestations, roof leaks, molding carpets, faulty heating systems…

I think back to when Mac was working maintenance, and how everything kind of stopped one day. I couldn't even get my leaking faucet looked at. I would call only to be told to file a work order. But there were so many hoops to jump through, I'd end up watching a YouTube video and learn to fix things myself.

But how many other families weren't as handy? Like Molly, raising those kids on her own, with no one to turn to if something were wrong in the apartment. If they were paid off to leave quietly, I can only imagine what their apartment looked like.

It just makes me that much angrier at Mac for not only keeping this from me, but going along with this whole charade. The fact that he owned those buildings too and had the money to make repairs infuriates me. How elitist can you be to sit on your golden throne while your kingdom crumbles around you?

"Whoa," Nina murmurs. I turn, thinking she's heard my thoughts. But she's still reading, her hand at her mouth as her eyes move over the page. I go back to the article, searching until I land on the part she's at.

Earlier this year, Wright discovered he had Stage 4 cancer. When told he only had months to live, Wright contacted specialist after specialist but was turned down by everyone.

"He was told the cancer was too far advanced for anything to make a difference," said Lily Thebault, his former assistant. "Besides, he didn't have the money to pay them."

According to Thebault, this is when real estate broker Mac Dermot stepped in to help. "It was noble, what Malcolm was doing," Thebault said. But it wasn't an easy road in the beginning. "At first, Benji refused. He was too stubborn even though he was in danger of losing it all. But I think Benji realized he was running out of time. He finally sold everything but the house he died in, and the money helped fend off collectors and keep his name out of the news. Even more, it allowed him the freedom to die at home."

But Wright's purpose wasn't just for survival, Thebault believes. "I think he did this to wipe the slate clean. He knew the properties were falling apart, and he wanted his name off the deeds."

But the story may hold another deep layer. While there is nothing on paper that links Malcolm Dermot and Benjamin Wright beyond the sale of every one of Wright's properties, one former employee believed their relationship goes much deeper.

"He was like Mr. Wright's kid or something," said Alistair Brock, manager of the Beale Street apartments for the past three years.

"I heard they met when Mac tried to swindle Benji," Brock said. The Beale Street manager relayed a story Wright once told him about the young teen who broke into the real estate mogul's home. "Mac managed to get past the alarms, but missed the cameras, which led to a confrontation with Benji's security team."

The discovery led Mr. Wright to take the kid under his wing. "The way he said it, business and thievery often looked like the same thing, you just wear different suits," Brock said. "I don't want to start rumors, but let's just say that statement makes sense in all interpretations when it comes to both Mr. Wright and Mac Dermot. "

We have tried contacting Mr. Dermot to validate his relationship with Benjamin Wright and determine how much he knew about the condition of the properties, but he has not been available for comment. Interviews with his former tenants have been unresponsive as well.

Nice of Brock to throw his brother under the bus like that. I realize their foster status was as legal as everything else Benji touched—meaning that it was not official at all. There was nothing to tie Mac or Brock to Benji except for hearsay.

Reading this article also reminds me of the weird voicemail I'd received months ago. I hadn't recognized the name, and when they mentioned the Beale Street Apartments, I deleted the message, figuring it was an opportunist looking to take advantage of someone looking for a home. I only now realize it was probably a reporter. But honestly, what would I have told them? I want to put Beale Street behind me. I want to forget about Mac. I want to pretend Benji never existed.

I have a better life ahead of me.

"Do you think Mac was in on it?" Nina asks.

I nod, then pause, then shake my head. "I don't know," I finally say, "Part of me thinks he's capable of it, especially if he was trying to rob Mr. Wright." The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to shove them back in. I have a past, but I'm not the same person. Just because Mac used to be a thief doesn't mean he'd actually be a part of Benji's slum tactics.

But he had to have known. How could he not? And this had to be a coverup. I obviously never knew him as well as I thought. He could absolutely be an accomplice in all of this, covering tracks so that no one would be the wiser. I mean, you can't see black mold in a torn down building.

I take the newspaper from Nina's hand and throw both of them in the backseat. "Let's just forget about Mac and all of this nonsense. I shouldn't have read it. None of it matters anymore anyway, right?"

I look over at Nina, needing her confirmation. She gives it in a slow nod.

"Yeah," she said, "Even if I still miss his abs, he's a fucking asshole."