Part 3The Key to Betrayal: Selling the House My Mother Left Me

The next day, I took half a day off work.

I didn't go looking for Arthur. Nor did I go looking for that woman.

I went to the apartment complex's HOA office.

"Hello, I'm the owner of Unit 602 in Building 6." I showed the HOA staff a photo of the deed.

The young man at the desk checked his computer. "Ms. Chloe Hayes, correct? Are you here to report a maintenance issue? About that leak yesterday—"

"I'd like to check who has been paying the HOA fees for 602 over the past two years."

The young man scrolled through the records.

"It was paid by a Mr... Arthur Vance. Paid annually."

"Starting from when?"

"March 2023."

March 2023.

It's now February 2025.

Almost two years.

"One more thing," I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. "Do you have a registry for the residents of 602?"

"Yes, tenants are required to register with the HOA." He clicked his mouse a few times. "The registered resident is... Ms. Mia Smith. Move-in date: March 15, 2023."

March 15, 2023.

The day after the first anniversary of my mother's passing.

My grip on my phone tightened slightly.

Coming out of the HOA office, I stood by the complex's flowerbed.

An older gentleman was walking his dog. He glanced at me. "You from 602?"

"Yes."

"That girl from your place—is she a relative? She's nice, always polite when we run into each other. But when that guy comes over, they can be a bit loud."

"That guy... does he come over often?"

"Usually two or three times a week. Sometimes he brings groceries, sometimes fruit. Last month he even hauled a treadmill up there."

Bringing groceries. Bringing fruit. Hauling a treadmill.

I did the math in my head.

In fifteen years of marriage, the things Arthur bought for me: a washing machine (we pooled money for appliances when we got married) and a rice cooker (the old one broke).

Anything else? Nothing.

Even when I was hospitalized to give birth, I packed my own hospital bag.

I thanked him and left the complex.

Sitting on the bus, I opened my phone and scrolled to a specific contact on WhatsApp.

Sarah. My best friend of over a decade. She had worked at a real estate agency for eight years and now led her own team.

I didn't send a message.

I put my phone away.

It wasn't time yet.

I needed to know more first.

That evening, Arthur came home.

At 8:30 PM, same as usual.

He changed his shoes, washed his hands, and sat down to eat.

I had cooked three dishes and a soup. Same as usual.

"Arthur, how long ago did the tenant in the relocation apartment move out?"

His hand holding his chopsticks paused.

"Sometime last month."

"Have you found a new tenant yet?"

"Not yet, no rush."

"The HOA called me about a leak. I went to check it out yesterday."

He put down his chopsticks.

"You went?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't I tell you I'd hire someone to fix it? Why did you go all the way out there?"

"I was in the area."

He glanced at me, didn't say anything, and went back to eating.

"Is the leak fixed?" I asked.

"I'll get someone to look at it tomorrow."

He kept his head down, shoveling food into his mouth, refusing to look at me.

I also kept my head down and ate.

The faucet in the kitchen was dripping. Drip, drop.

For fifteen years, I had been asking him to fix that faucet.

He always said tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

When it came to my things, it was always tomorrow.