The Commission

Chapter 8 — Rosa’s Discovery

Rosa Delgado had a gift Diana had never been able to teach and had long since stopped trying to replicate: people told Rosa things. Escrow officers, receptionists, junior associates at law firms, the woman who cut the keys at the title company — they all talked to Rosa, because Rosa remembered their birthdays and asked about their kids and never once made anyone feel like a source.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, over tacos at a truck off Thomas Road, that Rosa’s friend Jess — a processor at the escrow company that had handled the Saguaro House closing — said the thing that changed everything.

“You’ll never guess what’s back on my desk,” Jess said, reaching for the hot sauce.

Rosa, to her eternal credit, did not guess. She waited.

“The Saguaro House,” Jess said. “Cole’s flipping it. Already in escrow.”

Rosa’s taco stopped halfway to her mouth. “He just bought it. The closing was—”

“Two months ago, I know. And now he’s selling it for fourteen million to some tech couple out of Austin. Cash deal. No financing contingency, no appraisal, twenty-one-day close.” Jess lowered her voice, even though the nearest table was fifteen feet away. “And Rosa? He’s pushing it through like his hair’s on fire. Rush recording, waived the extended title search, told our office he wants the deed recorded before the end of the month. My manager said she’s never seen a fourteen-million-dollar deal move this fast. It’s like he wants it done before anyone has time to think.”

Rosa set down her taco very carefully. “Who’s the buyer’s agent?”

“Somebody out of Austin. They’re flying in Thursday for the inspection.” Jess frowned at her friend’s expression. “Rosa? You okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine,” Rosa said. “I’m great. Tell me everything else.”

By the time Rosa got back to the office — a rented desk in a shared brokerage suite that smelled permanently of someone else’s microwave lunches — her hands were shaking so hard she could barely get the key in the lock. Diana was at her own desk, on the phone with a prospective buyer, laughing the bright professional laugh she used when she wanted someone to feel like the most important person in the room. Rosa waited until she hung up.

“Diana,” Rosa said. “We need to talk. Now.”

She told her everything. The fourteen million. The Austin couple. The twenty-one-day close. The rush recording, the waived title search, the inspection on Thursday.

Diana listened without moving, her face going through a series of expressions Rosa had never seen before — disbelief, calculation, and then something colder and more focused than either.

“He’s running,” Diana said quietly.

“What?”

“He knows.” Diana stood up and started pacing the small office, three steps one way, three steps back. “Pryce’s phone call wasn’t just intimidation, Rosa. It was reconnaissance. They know someone’s pulling records. And Cole’s response isn’t to fix the title — it’s to dump the property before anyone looks at it too closely.”

Rosa sank into her chair. “Fourteen million. He’s going to clear two million in two months and walk away clean.”

“Worse than that.” Diana stopped pacing. “Think about what happens after the Austin couple records their deed. They’ll get their own title policy. Their own clean chain. Every year that passes, every subsequent transfer, buries the original fraud a little deeper. In five years, unwinding it becomes practically impossible — too many innocent parties, too much reliance. Frank said it himself: originals have a way of disappearing around Preston Cole. If that sale closes, the north parcel’s real history disappears with it.”

“How long do we have?” Rosa asked.

“Inspection Thursday. Close in — what, nineteen days now?” Diana did the math in her head. “Less, if he pushes. Jess said he wants it recorded before month’s end.”

Rosa pulled out her phone and started typing. “I’m going to call Jess back. Find out the buyers’ names, their attorney, everything.”

“Careful,” Diana warned. “If Jess gets caught feeding us escrow details—”

“I know. I’ll be careful.” Rosa looked up, and her usual warmth had hardened into something Diana recognized — the same fury she’d felt staring at her forged signature. “He stole your commission, Diana. He tried to scare you off the phone. And now he’s going to pocket fourteen million dollars for a house sitting on land he never owned, and sail off into the sunset while the Austin couple holds the bag.”

Diana walked to the window. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was turning the Camelback Mountain the color of burnt copper. Somewhere across town, Preston Cole was probably sitting in his glass office, smiling that charming smile, counting money that wasn’t entirely his.

“He’s not going to make it to the sunset,” Diana said.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Frank: *Call me. It’s about the Ellison trust. You need to hear this in person.*

Diana stared at the message for a long moment. Then she looked at Rosa.

“Thursday,” she said. “The buyers fly in Thursday for the inspection. That’s our window.”

“Our window for what?”

Diana picked up her bag. “For making sure they know exactly what they’re buying.”

As she headed for the door, Rosa called after her: “Diana — what if the buyers walk? What if Cole just finds another buyer?”

Diana paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Then we keep going,” she said. “Until there’s nowhere left for him to run.”

She didn’t say the rest of it — the thought that had been growing in her mind since Frank’s garage, since the corkboard full of red flags. She didn’t say it because she wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet, not even to Rosa.

But the thought was this: what if they didn’t just stop the sale? What if they bought the house themselves — at the price it would command once the truth came out?

She got in her car and drove to Frank’s, and the desert evening stretched out ahead of her, wide and dark and full of possibility.