…”my brother is the one who booked all seven. I found out last night. My name is Claire.”
I stood in that kitchen with my car keys between my fingers and my thumb on 911. I didn’t go to the closet. I texted back, “Why should I trust you?”
She sent a photo of her driver’s license. Then another photo, of a man I recognized. He’d been my client two years ago, buying a condo. Nice guy. Asked me to coffee after closing. I said no, politely.
“He paid six guys from a gig app to book showings with you,” she wrote. “Fifty bucks each, to walk through a house and leave. He wanted to know your schedule, your car, which houses you show alone. He filled out every form himself. I found the box in his apartment and put it in the closet because I knew you’d come here today and I wanted you to see it before you saw him.”
I opened the closet, with my phone already dialing. Inside was a cardboard box. Photos of me showing houses. A spreadsheet of my listings, with notes on which ones had back doors. A key, made from a lockbox code he’d watched me punch in.
The police arrived in six minutes. Claire was waiting in her car across the street. She came up to the porch and gave her statement standing next to me, holding my hand, even though we’d never met.
Her brother was arrested that evening. He’s been charged with stalking, and the key got him a burglary charge, too.
My brokerage changed its whole safety policy that month. Every new client now verifies their ID through an app before a showing, and nobody shows a vacant house alone. They named the policy after me, which is embarrassing.
Claire and I get coffee once a month now. Last time, she said she still feels guilty for what her brother did. I told her the truth. “He sent seven people to that house. You were the only one who came to help.”
