By Thursday morning, Arthur had forgotten all about the bizarre email until his assistant, Chloe, buzzed his intercom. “Arthur, I have a Marian Woodard on line two; she says it’s urgent regarding the Willow Lane listing.”
Arthur picked up the receiver and asked if she had received his neighborhood market analysis. “I did, young man,” a crisp, remarkably steady voice replied. “And while I appreciate your colorful charts, the price remains two-point-two million. I require an agent who understands value—are you that agent?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened at this blatant waste of his time, arguing that no buyer would pay millions for a 1,200-square-foot suburban box just for sentimental value. “Then come look at it yourself, Arthur,” Marian said softly, with an underlying steel that caught him off guard. “Tomorrow at ten. If you still think I’m crazy, I’ll let you walk away.”