Selling Murder House

Chapter 3 (Continued)

I spent all of Saturday reliving every humiliating moment, analyzing everything I did and said, wondering if I had sent some unintentional signal that set off the disgusting chain of events. It's like I wanted to believe I had brought it all on myself, to somehow justify the all-consuming shame I felt in my gut. Maybe I wanted to convince myself that situations like this could possibly be avoided in the future, if only I could figure out where I had misstepped.

I couldn't find a single thing that could have led Leo on.

Somewhere along the line, maybe after I'd polished off that bottle of cab sav, the shame transformed into angry indignation. I plotted my revenge, how I would tell Lilian everything that happened and get Leo fired, how I would kick him in the balls if he ever tried to touch me again.

When I woke up Sunday morning though, head pounding and so tired my bones hurt, all the vengeful energy had gone. I felt my mind shuffling the record of that night away into a far, dark, untouchable corner. In the light of day, with a sober mind there to kick me in the head, I realized I could never get Leo fired from the Larson Group, not even if I told Lilian. Leo co-owned the company, and I'm pretty sure a sexual harassment claim wouldn't change that. No, I could never tell Lilian, I could never tell anyone what happened. He would never leave his own company, so if I told, I would be the one to go.

You really think you're somebody . . .

But it probably wouldn't even come down to whether or not I wanted to tell, I realized. Stassi had walked in on us in a position that could be construed as consensual intimacy, and a tidbit of gossip like that, especially in the hands of someone like Stassi, was bound to spread like wildfire throughout the Group. Whatever I said, it would be my word against Leo's and Stassi's. The young, drunk designer's word against the word of the company head and the Group's top agent.

But if rumors about me and Leo had spread, why hadn't I gotten any texts or calls about it? Sofia had texted me to make sure I'd gotten home okay, but other than that, nothing. For some reason, the lack of drama made me even more nervous.

Speaking of Larson's top agent, I had an appointment to catch at Stassi's listing in an hour. I jumped out of bed to throw on some clothes. The property wasn't far, but I'd have to leave early. My car was still in the shop, and there was no way I was asking Stassi to carpool. There was a chance I wouldn't see her, that she wouldn't arrive at the property until the staging was set, but with my luck lately I doubted I'd be let off that easy.

When my Uber driver pulled up at the house, I spotted Stassi's light blue convertible Mini Cooper parked in the driveway and my heart dropped into my stomach.

The house was older than the Larson Group's typical listing, with beautiful ornate architectural touches that are harder to come by this century; crown molding, thin-plank hardwood floors, high, rounded archways, and gold fixtures that had to be original. Everything else, I discovered, had been entirely modernized and renovated. The kitchen shined bright white and stainless steel, all the window treatments were voice-activated, and there was an elaborate security system that informed you, in a regal male voice, whenever someone was at the door. These kinds of modern details bored me, but I was inspired by the historical accents the house boasted.

I was envisioning the home's buyer -- an older woman, maybe married to a much younger man . . . a woman who appreciates the charm of history, but also enjoys the comforts of modernity -- when I heard Stassi's heels clicking down the curved staircase.

"Hello Mary," Stassi sang as she entered the drawing room.

I met her eye, expecting to see disgust there, or pity, or maybe a sparkle of entertainment at my expense, but there was nothing. It made me uneasy.