“Hey, Martha, it’s Cassie,” I say into my phone as I check that I’ve got everything I need. I’m quite the packer. Even going to the grocery store involves a packing list for me. And airports? The security guys there hate me with a passion. “Listen, I’ll be out of the office today. I’ve got my eyes on three different properties that might be good purchases.”

It’s not a total lie. I do plan on spending most of the day working, but if I get done early, I still have some shoes to buy. I tell Martha a few details just in case she needs to get ahold of me, then I hang up and plug my phone into my dash dock where it’ll work as my navigation if I need it. I’m terrible with driving directions. I don’t think I could get myself from the office downstairs to the cafe if I didn’t have it sometimes. Thankfully, I already input the three addresses for today’s journey, and I check my other supplies. Laptop in case I need to send a serious email or something—check. Frappe from Mindy’s Place for my morning caffeine buzz—check. Shoulder bag with my camera, wallet, and of course, all the other stuff I need to make sure I look good if I happen to run into Tom Hardy while I’m out—check. Always gotta be prepared. That’s my motto.

I fire up my engine, and Roxy’s cover of Hallelujah starts up. Damn, that girl can sing, and while she’s not my entire playlist, it’s a great way to start the morning. I cruise, letting my body relax as I get ready for a day in the ‘mobile office’. I’ve always enjoyed this part of my job, working outside the office. Investigating new properties is fun. I always feel like I’m part Sherlock Holmes, part Storage Wars, and part True Detective. House Hunters? Please. I’m serious with this. I’m not going to be worrying if the kitchen has granite countertops or not. I’m looking for the deal.

It’s probably the most fun part of my job. Most people, when they go looking for a house, they want the good stuff. They’re looking for new carpets, fresh paint, all the bells and whistles. We’re not. I want to find the worst house in the best part of town, pick it up at a steal, sink fifteen thousand into it, and either rent it out or flip it for twenty percent profit. In fact, the best way to get Steele Solutions to cut a check for your property is to make sure the carpet needs to be replaced.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the first house, a two-bedroom for sale by a couple that’s moving up and out. It’s adorable and I love the all-brick construction, but as I get out of my car, I make sure to lock the doors. Our small town is nowhere near as bad as some of the nearby big cities, but every town’s got ‘that area’, the part of town where the folks who just don’t fit in live. Unfortunately for this couple, their house is right on the edge of ‘the tracks’, as we call it. On the edge, and looking around at the other houses, not in a good way either.

It’s a shame too, because looking at the house itself, it’d be a place I’d love to live and start a family when the time’s right. There’s even a fireplace, and to me, nothing is more romantic than cuddling up in front of a real fire on a winter’s night. But no amount of renovation to the house will make up for the decidedly unsafe street it resides on.

Hurrying back to my car, because Mama didn’t raise no fool, I’m off to property two. Pulling up out front, I feel a little tingle of excitement. The house has got hidden appeal, as it’s almost completely covered by a huge shaggy tree in the front that drapes down to meet the overgrown weeds standing as tall as I am. And while I’m on the shorter side, that’s for a woman, not for a weed!

I get out of my car, checking my notes on my tablet before I try and fight my way through the jungle that is the yard. The house is in a good-ish neighborhood. It was just caught up in a court battle for years. An old man died, and his two sons fought over the family home. Finally, the probate court said fuck it, and the property’s up for sale.

I walk up to the house, trying my best to keep to the cracked walkway. It’s a shame, really. The two sons could have gotten a lot higher value for this place if they’d just agreed to split the sale or to just have one of them sell it. Fuck, flip a coin. Don’t let a house get like this! Thank God for jeans that make my ass look good and light hiking boots.

My initial excitement fades as I get inside. While the pictures that the website displayed showed the good side, they certainly hid the bad. All of the plumbing fixtures are corroded. The whole place will have to be repiped, and I bet from looking at the outlets, it’ll have to be rewired too. I didn’t think anyone even had outlets like that in their houses anymore.

As I make my way upstairs, I’m tallying a list of projects for the house, and even before I get to the spare bedroom that has no ceiling because a leaky roof collapsed inward, I realize it’s not a money-making option. There’s light damage that can be replaced and repaired economically, and then there are total renovations that cost more than they’re worth. This house is definitely part of the second group. Damn it. Zero for two today. Off to the third on the list . . . and it’s nearly an hour out of town, just over the county line.

I get on the Interstate and start to cruise. As I do, I realize that I’m not that far from the town where I lived as a little kid. I didn’t always live near the big city. In fact, for the first ten years of my life, I was a country girl. I spent my summers swimming in the river, riding my bike like a crazy person, and camping in the backyard of what was the best house ever. Two stories, it was an old farmhouse that my parents had bought and renovated before I was born. While the farm itself wasn’t ours, we still had a full acre to ourselves, a big garage, and a playset that gave me some of the best memories I could imagine. I haven’t stopped by since moving back to work with Oliver. The memories are a little too painful to think about. Still, I’m pulled toward checking it out.

On a whim, I decide to get off the highway and head over to my old place. I haven’t been back here in over fifteen years, not since my mom got a new job and we had to move, but the turns are familiar to me. The street curves. A few of the houses have changed, but I can still identify some of them.

When I see 614 Douglas, I’m slow driving, just sort of intending to do a drive-by of the old home. I’m certainly not intending to spend much more time than that. I have to get out to this third property for Oliver before the afternoon wears on any longer. But as I see the property, I hit my brakes, stunned. The house looks just like it did before, with the wide front and almost Alpine-steep roof that’s broken up by two jutting outcroppings. I’ve always thought they looked like eyes over the long porch that wraps around the whole front. The railing is just like it always was, a sort of off-white that made me think the house was a smiling face.

But what causes me to smack my brakes isn’t the house, but the sign out front. I blink, rubbing my eyes, but when I open them, it’s still there, just like it was before.

For Sale by Owner.

Holy shit. My childhood home’s for sale.