The Commission

Chapter 10 — The Consortium

Diana cooked. It was Rosa’s idea — “nobody says no to a woman who just fed them” — and so on a Saturday evening, Diana’s small kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and roasting chicken while three people who had every reason to hate Preston Cole sat around her table with wine glasses they kept forgetting to drink from.

Marta Vega had lost ninety thousand dollars on a Paradise Valley listing in 2022, when a “clerical revision” to her commission agreement appeared the day before funding. Greg Holland, a silver-haired veteran broker, had been cut out of a condo development deal so cleanly he’d needed a lawyer to explain to him that it had happened. Priya Nair, the youngest at thirty-four, had brought Cole a land assemblage near Fountain Hills and been paid a quarter of her contracted fee, with Pryce personally informing her that “disputed commissions have a way of following agents around.”

They had all refused to go on record when Diana first asked. Now they were in her kitchen, because Rosa had spent two weeks working on them the way Rosa worked on everyone — with persistence disguised as friendliness.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Diana said, setting down the serving dish, “and I need you to hear all of it before anyone says a word.”

She told them everything. The north parcel. The Ellison Family Trust. Frank’s corkboard — the dead grantor, the ghost notary, the missing exhibits. The fourteen-million-dollar resale to the Austin couple, rushing toward a close. And then the plan: kill the resale, force the distressed sale, buy the Saguaro House at auction, clear the title properly, and relist it clean.

When she finished, the silence lasted long enough for the oven timer to go off. Rosa got up to check the chicken.

“That’s insane,” Greg said at last.

“I know.”

“You want us to put money into this? After what he did to us?”

“I want us to put money into the one thing Preston Cole can’t forge, intimidate, or bury,” Diana said. “A recorded deed, bought fair and square at a public auction. And I want your testimony — sworn statements about what he did to each of you. Not for a lawsuit. For the state real estate board, and for the buyers’ attorney, when the time comes.”

Carol leaned forward. “Why would we trust this works?”

“Because I’ve spent two months learning exactly how his paper falls apart, and Frank Heller has spent thirty years learning how paper works.” Diana met each of their eyes in turn. “He stole from all of us because we were alone. Four agents, four separate thefts, nobody talking. That’s his whole system — isolation. The minute we’re standing together, with documents instead of complaints, the math changes.”

Susan swirled her wine. “How much money are we talking about?”

“At auction, with the title cloud public? Frank estimates the house goes for six to eight million. We’d need to show proof of funds well above that, plus reserves to clear the trust’s claim and carry the property.” Diana took a breath. “Between the four of us, we can pool maybe a million and a half. It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Greg asked, but his tone had shifted — less dismissal, more curiosity.

“Building the foundation,” Diana said. “So that when I find the rest of the money, we’re ready to move.”

As if on cue, her phone rang. Unknown number. Diana almost ignored it — then answered on instinct, the same instinct that had picked up Pryce’s call in Frank’s garage.

“Diana Voss,” she said.

“Ms. Voss. My name is Elliot Marsh.” The voice was crisp, East Coast, the voice of a man who billed in six-minute increments. “I’m an attorney with Marsh Capital Partners. I represent a client with a personal interest in Preston Cole’s business affairs. I’d like to discuss a funding arrangement, if you have a moment.”

Diana’s eyes found Rosa’s across the kitchen. Rosa mouthed: *Who is it?*

“I’m listening,” Diana said.

“My client has become aware of your investigation into certain irregularities in Mr. Cole’s property titles.” A pause. “My client wishes to remain anonymous. But my client is prepared to provide up to three million dollars in bridge financing for the acquisition you’re planning — structured through a private LLC, fully documented, at market terms. No equity stake. No control. Just capital, deployed at auction, repaid from the eventual resale.”

The room had gone utterly still. Susan had stopped breathing, or seemed to.

“Why?” Diana asked. “Why would an anonymous client fund this?”

“My client believes Preston Cole’s conduct warrants… examination. And believes you are the person best positioned to ensure that examination occurs.” Marsh’s tone didn’t change. “There is one condition.”

Diana closed her eyes. There was always a condition.

“Whatever evidence you assemble goes to the authorities,” Marsh said. “The state board. The attorney general. Law enforcement, if it comes to that. Not to the press for a payday. Not to Mr. Cole’s competitors as leverage. The law, Ms. Voss. My client insists the law handle this.”

Diana thought about that. It was, she realized, the one condition she would have set herself.

“And if I refuse the condition?”

“Then there is no funding, and this conversation never happened.” A beat. “But my client doesn’t believe you’ll refuse.”

After Marsh hung up — after the wire instructions were promised by email, after the LLC paperwork was described in brisk detail — Diana set down her phone and looked at the three agents around her table.

“Three million dollars,” Susan whispered. “From a ghost.”

“From someone Cole hurt,” Greg corrected quietly. “Somebody with money and a grudge and enough sense to stay out of the blast radius. In this town, that’s a long list.”

Carol was already pulling out her phone. “I’m in. I’ll have my sworn statement to you by Wednesday, and I can put in four hundred thousand.”

“I’m in,” Susan said. “Three hundred.”

Greg rubbed his jaw, the twenty-year veteran doing the math one last time. Then he nodded. “Six hundred thousand. And Diana? If this goes sideways, he comes after all of us.”

“If we do nothing, he still comes after us,” Diana said. “He’s already coming after me. The only question is whether we meet him standing up.”

They shook hands around the table, over the cooling chicken, and it felt less like a business meeting than a pact. Rosa, returning with the serving dish, looked at their faces and started pouring more wine without being asked.

It was past ten when the last of them left, full of food and something that felt dangerously like hope. Diana was loading the dishwasher when Rosa’s phone buzzed. Rosa glanced at it — and went white.

“Diana.”

“What?”

“Jess just texted.” Rosa held up the phone with a shaking hand. “Cole moved the closing up. The Austin buyers land tomorrow morning, and the inspection’s been pushed to tomorrow afternoon. He’s trying to get it done before anyone can get in the way.”

Diana dried her hands slowly on a dish towel. Tomorrow. Not Thursday — tomorrow. The window she’d been counting on had just slammed half-shut.

She looked at the consortium papers spread across her kitchen table. The sworn-statement drafts. Marsh’s number in her phone. Frank’s corkboard full of red flags, burned into her memory.

“Then we’d better be faster than him,” Diana said.

And for the first time since the closing — since the forged addendum, since Pryce’s smirk — Diana Voss smiled, and meant it.