My Three Houses Vanished Overnight

I thought I'd heard him wrong.

I took the recorder back and stared at the owner, asking again.

"Are you sure you didn't make a mistake?"

"There was still something on it last night. My grandson deleted it by accident."

"How could it be brand new?"

I turned the recorder over and pointed at the scratch along the side.

"Look right here."

"The scratch is right there. How is that new?"

Yesterday, when I picked it up from under the bed, I'd run my thumb over that scratch several times.

The position, the length, how deep it went. I remembered all of it clearly.

But the owner just waved me off.

"Ma'am, what I checked is the unit's internal serial number."

"This serial is brand new. It was only activated this morning."

"I don't know about your scratch, but the device itself is new."

I took the recorder back and shot him a glare.

"If you can't find it, just say so. Don't make excuses."

"It only means you're not good enough at your job."

The owner was about to argue back, but I'd already turned and walked out.

Standing at the curb, I drew in a deep breath.

Then I found another shop nearby, one that specialized in voice recorders.

The clerk was a young woman in glasses.

Her manner was pleasant.

I handed her the recorder and explained the whole thing again.

She took it, connected it to her computer, and tapped at the keyboard a few times.

Then she looked up at me with exactly the same expression as the owner before.

"Auntie, this recorder is new. It's never been used."

"The activation time was six twenty-three this morning."

I braced a hand on the counter, my face unsettled.

"You're sure?"

She turned the screen toward me.

"See for yourself. The backend data doesn't lie."

"The first activation time for this device is this morning."

I walked out of the shop holding the recorder.

The sun was blazing, but my back felt cold.

Who exactly was lying to me?

Why had the recorder vanished, and why had it turned up in Jayden's backpack?

Last night I had clearly heard what was on it.

Yet now even the scratch on the side was exactly like the one from last night.

And the device was ruled brand new?

My head was a tangled mess.

On the way home, I ran into Annette at the entrance to our neighborhood.

She had groceries in her hand and greeted me with a cheerful smile.

"Yolanda, has your family settled on the compensation deal yet?"

"We've already talked it over. We're just taking the cash. We've got another place to live anyway."

She leaned in a little and lowered her voice.

"Three units, all in cash, that's no small sum. Don't let yourselves get shortchanged."

I opened my mouth, my throat a little dry.

"You might be misremembering. There's no property in my name."

At that, Annette's expression changed.

She stepped back and looked me up and down.

Her eyes went strange, and the smile at the corner of her mouth turned awkward.

"If you don't want to talk about it, fine. No need to make up excuses."

"The houses are yours, not mine. If you don't want to say, then don't."

She waved a hand and walked off with her groceries.

I watched her back, mouth opening, then closing again.

Last time she'd said the same thing.

Said I had three houses in my name, and this time I'd struck it rich.

If I were the only one who'd remembered it wrong,

then how could Annette remember it too?

I gritted my teeth and turned toward the bus stop.

This time I didn't go to check the property registered in my name.

Instead I went to the county property records office and applied to look up the transaction history.

The clerk at the window had me fill out a form.

I waited about twenty minutes.

Then she passed a printed sheet out through the window.

My fingers were trembling as I took it.

Black and white, plain as day.

Two years ago, all three properties, within the same month.

Sold and transferred, one after another.

In the seller's column, every signature was my name.

As for the buyers, they weren't the same person.

Holding that sheet, my heart pounded so hard it felt like it would leap out of my throat.

The houses were real.

Three of them, real.

I hadn't misremembered, and I wasn't losing my mind to old age.

But if they were sold two years ago, why didn't I remember any of it?

My husband and my daughter had never once mentioned it to me.

Just how much had they kept from me?

I was still standing there in a daze, clutching the transaction record.

Then my phone rang.

A young woman's voice.

"Excuse me, is this Auntie Yolanda?"

"I'm calling from Pinnacle Tech, the shop where you came in about the recorder just now."

Her voice was polite, but with a note of hesitation.

"It's like this, Auntie."

"I just remembered, the recorder you brought in,"

"it supports automatic cloud upload."