Keeper of the Keys by Perri O'Shaughnessy

in Whittier across from Kat’s little house. It wouldn’t seem strange to her.
    Tinsley Enterprises in Santa Monica wasn’t a long way from Hermosa Beach, it just felt that way because of the daily life-risking commute. Kat pulled into the small parking lot next to the office on Santa Monica Boulevard, pleased to get a spot so easily for a change, picked up her things, and ran up the two flights of stairs to the office, where the receptionist greeted her with a cup of coffee, half milk, just the way she liked it.
    Kat and Jacki’s dad, Gus Tinsley, had opened this real estate appraisal firm in the seventies and muddled along for decades until he died suddenly, still young, not long after divorcing their mother. Kat had first gotten involved in the business during summers starting in high school, following her dad around and watching, with astonishment, as cheap fixer-uppers ascended into properties worth millions.
    She continued to work for his successor, Micky Gowecki, finally passed the test to become an appraiser, and now felt confident in her work. She knew the market, the psychology, and the loopy, blustering desire and greed that drove people to question her judgment, and she was good on the witness stand in disputed cases. Her work had swiftly become almost unassailable, and she was earning a rep for fairness.
    She spent the late morning in court wearing her credibility togs: fake diamond studs, fake diamond solitaire at her neck, black silk suit that nipped snugly at the waist, making her look thinner. Up on the chopping block today, a house in La Habra, an utterly basic, roofed dwelling.
    People who didn’t have much often fought the most brutally to hold on to what they had.
    The soon-to-be-ex–husband started off with some dignity. He answered his own attorney’s questions calmly. Then his soon-to-beex–wife’s attorney, a female, picked away at him. The man appeared to be choking, the way he worked the tie at his throat. His face fluctuated between pasty and blotched as the emotions ratcheted up. He had a right to that house! He grew up there! His father built it! He had happy memories galore! This greedy witch would fix it up and flip it, destroying a family legacy!
    The ex-wife took the stand. She still lived in the house. He had left her, cheated on her, broken her heart, and she couldn’t see why she should have to move. Why should he be rewarded for being such an asshole? He hated the house and complained constantly about it. He’d sell it for a bundle and make a huge profit.
    Kat took the stand, trying to remain objective, answering questions about square footage, coverage, comps. This house had lovely landscaping, which added an extra thirty grand to its value.
    She explained how she had arrived at her valuation, describing the number of bedrooms, legally only two, not three, since one had no closet, the state of the paint and rugs, poor, the repairs necessary to bring the property up to snuff. She testified that having only one bathroom cut into value, showed pictures of the street that revealed a run-down, undesirable ambiance.
    By the time she was done, not a single person in the courtroom liked her.
    On the way to the house in Long Beach, she called the Jackson house. When a machine answered, she hung up without leaving a message, a little nervous about her mood and what she might unleash if she let her mouth start up.
    What would she blurt? “Hi, Leigh? It’s me, Kat. Let’s meet up and see a movie and hang out together like we used to do a hundred years ago, when my brother was alive and we were younger and hadn’t done reprehensible things.”
    She called Leigh’s business number again. “Sorry to bug you but—I’m Leigh’s old friend—”
    “Oh, yes, you again,” said Leigh’s receptionist, suddenly not sounding so certain, suddenly young. “I’m sorry. Leigh hasn’t been in.”
    “Is she sick?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with her. In fact, I don’t know