2019-06-12 - Lizzie Borden Took an Axe

Large puddles are left a the side of the road, and in the dips of the sidewalk, and the grassy patches between sidewalk and curb. There's a break in the rain just now, allowing a few brave souls to scurry forth along the walks. The sound of heels approaching sounds, and a blonde in skinny jeans and a dark brown leather jacket wanders up from the corner, a pair of bright yellow vintage heels on her feet, making her way neatly around the largest of water pools. Lucinda hops over one, then continues on her way, approaching the gate out front of a modest blue Craftsman.

It'll be a moment before she reaches it, sedate pace and all. The twenty-something glances up, eyeballing the foreboding, heavy clouds above, which look as if they'll drop buckets at any moment. Her shaggy blonde locks are a bit windblown, like she's been walking a while and hasn't bothered with a mirror today, or she doesn't care. Could be a case of RBF.

There's a 1999 Silver Toyota Corolla parked across the street from the Craftsman.
It's actually been parked there for the better part of an hour, the occupant having been taking short on-and-off naps since he pulled up to the curb. Whatever descriptor most might use for Lucinda's current appearance, it would seem that the driver has decided this is one-hundred-percent absolutely who he was waiting for, pushing open the driver-side door to somewhat clamber his way out. It's a little... stilted, with an arm crossing his chest at one point and a muffled phrase, the words of which are uncatchable from across the street.

Mark has forgone his Hawaiian shirt for something that actually makes him look remotely respectable: A dull grey hoodie underneath his dark wool coat. That, coupled with the comfortably warm looking woolen hat totally means he doesn't look in any way, shape, nor form someone who is casing houses for later burglary. Especially what with the heavy boots and thick craftsman's trousers. Good Job, Mark. "Hey! You the realtor?" Probably directed at Lucinda as he crosses to approach the very same gate as she does. Probably. He's looking at her, at least.

The first thing that happens when that door creaks open and the form of Mark levers out is that Lucinda's hands go into her jacket pockets. Her bright blue eyes follow every move the man makes, particularly as it seems to be in response to her approach. She's just thinking he's definitely not the realtor when he asks if she is. "Are you joking." That slips out before she can stop it, but the look on her face, that is to say the lack of much expression, doesn't into anything remotely abashed at the flat intonation.

There's a silence of approximately six and a half seconds before she continues, "There was a murder-suicide in the master bedroom. That isn't a problem for you, is it?" She looks him down and right back up. "Disclosure." She finally makes her way up to his face, and then up to the hair on his head, which has less give a fuck than hers. "... Full disclosure."

If Mark notices the woman's instinctual reaction to his appearance... He doesn't react to it. Sure, lazy, slightly out-of-focus eyes settle on her once he's made his way to the sidewalk, but they take in the sight of Lucinda in the same way someone would notice a fruit bowl on a table. It's there, not entirely sure why, probably not gonna steal anything from it. He probably doesn't even realize he's mimicking her reaction when his own hand slides into his coat pocket, but returns a moment later with a half-open, foil-twisted packet of gum, unwrapping a piece to slip in the corner of his mouth before he blinks slowly in the direction of the building at her words.

"Huh. I'd be planning to rent one of the rooms out anyway, might as well make it the master room."

Apparently not a problem! Turning to look at the house might have been, though. His arm crosses his chest again.

"Good." Lucinda's response is a bit late in coming. She turns to look at the house. "1200 square feet, two bedroom. One bath." She regards it for a moment, then turns her gaze back to Mark. "They assured me the last fumigation took care of the termite problem, and that all affected panels and beams have been replaced." She reaches one pale hand for the lightly rusted gate, flicking the galvanized metal hook free of the post. It creaks and rattles a bit when opened, chain-link in need of a tie-down in a couple of places. The short woman makes her way through, up the lightly weedy poured-concrete sidewalk toward a set of modestly warped wood steps in need of a coat of paint. She tromps up them, but they barely creak.

On the porch, she frowns a bit, dragging the toe of her shoe across an unfortunate green synthetic fiber, vaguely the color of astroturf. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, and it is not one of approval. She pulls open a double-pane glass door, and hesitates at the entry. She murmurs something and says, "One moment, the key tends to... stick." She has no key. It's something else entirely.

"Ugh. One bath." That seems to be Mark's whole concern as he follows through the gate, sinking down a little further inside his coat and giving a wince of regret as his chest starts to fold up as a result of the move. It's gonna take him a while to remember that, and Mark is not the fastest learner in the world.

His hand grazes over the post as he passes is, boots scuffing across the pavement once or twice before peering down, as if to check for cracks. He seems pretty satisfied by the result, even giving a little noise of approval at the apparent workmanship behind the pour. The astro-turf-esque flooring? Oh, that gets the same response as Lucinda gave it. It is not a pleased noise. "Gonna have to bring my old doormat." He mutters. God knows what that has written on it.

And then she's breaking in. Mark knows she's breaking in. Mark... watches her break in. Mark doesn't seem to care in the slightest. He sniffs once, but that's about it.

"To be honest," and wouldn't it be nice if she was? "I had the exact same thought." Lucinda gives the door handle a jiggle for show, then shoulders the door open lightly. She moves inside, wiping her feet delicately on a little rug placed over the hardwood in there for just this purpose. She moves out of the way, sliding her hand into her jacket pocket again. The floor finish is given some consideration.

"Pretty settled in this property already, are you?" Luce moves through the entry and through an arched doorway into the living room. It's a good size, nearly square after all these years. The window boxes are original, and everything inside is freshly painted. All of the fixtures, ceiling fans, and lights have been recently replaced with less than interesting versions of the originals. That's a little sad, but the light is good. She moves on through and into the kitchen, which is, again, modest, but in relatively good repair.

Mark's added a second piece of gum and a couple of pills to his calorie count when the door swings open, totally helping Lucinda's breaking and entering concentration with the sound of two types of crinkling foil wrappers. Shuffling his way in behind, his boots are too wiped on the entryway rug, although with far less of a delicate touch.

And from that point, Mark stops following Lucinda's lead completely. Sure, the floor is given a little once-over, but as soon as that's done, he's moving to check out living space, veering away from the kitchen to call through a "Probably. Bored of motel life. I've got the cash for it, and figure renting out'll earn me a little back. And personally I like owning. Figure I'll be here for a few years, that's a waste to just rent on."

God. His previous, actual realtor must have loved him. "Shame about the lights!"

There's a long moment of silence from Lucinda, who has, by this time, started opening cabinets and checking through the various drawers. She eventually wanders through to the master bedroom, which is, of course, free of any questionable large stains. Her heels keep Mark aware of her location in the house by way of the unmistakable sound they make on the flooring. "I hate it when people buy the cheapest matching new set of fixtures. A thousand dollars in assorted lighting with character can easily translate to three in the sale price, particularly if a buyer is enthusiastic."

She mutters something else under her breath, though she does keep a decent amount of space between Mark and herself. He's enormous, she is not. The house is small and mace splashes.

What.

"What brings you to Gray Harbor?" Lucinda asks this most banal of questions, and then glances over to Mark again. "Are you — nevermind." Curiosity almost got the better of her there.

"Ah, I dunno shit about any of that." Mark immediately admits, making his way over to the kitchen once the sounds of heels have headed for the master bedroom. He opens and closes one of the cupboards more out of an idle curiosity than actually checking the interior space. "The ex-wife used to handle all that. It's why I got fucked on where the resale pricing ended up." This is what happens when you let the more sober of the two handle all the aspects of selling up your old family home.

If he heard the mutter, he doesn't seem to mind not knowing what was said, heading off to check the second bedroom. As said, it's a pretty small place, but he greets the size of the space with a cheerful little "Huh! I can work with this." As a nice little conceit, he's not even scuffing his feet when he moves right now. Probably another spotted sign that yes, he actually seems to be liking the place. He's wandering back in her direction when she asks that most obvious of questions, hands firmly shoved in his coat pockets.

"Work. Seattle wasn't working out any more, got some leads to be going on with here. Courier work, contracting, that kinda thing. Even asked someone about a driver job, but I was laid up in hospital at the time and I think the pills made her seem more bitchy than I was expecting." How's that for an over-sharing answer? "And no, I'm not a nevermind."

"If anyone's going to fuck you, it's going to be someone to whom you're not married." Lucinda's comment may be loud enough to carry to Mark, though it's hard to say for sure. Depends on if he's listening for it. She makes her way around the bedroom's interior, her hand on the wall, high up. She gives it a knock with her knuckles now and then. "Construction seems solid enough." She moves to the window and flips the interior lock, pulling it open easily. The wooden window moves in its track. She opens it all the way and leans out a bit, ignoring the spiders dead in the sill between screen and where the pane fell. After a moment looking out, she reaches up to take hold of the window again and pulls it down to close it. It moves smoothly.

Absently, Lucinda flips the lock mechanism closed again, pushing it in with her thumb.

Her hand pauses on the sill for a beat of three seconds before the bit about the hospital sinks in. "I'd guess pills should make other people seem more agreeable." She glances over her shoulder, then turns. Luce's blue eyes narrow briefly, and then she tips her chin up, expression smoothing back to something neutral. She moves to the hall. "I was going to ask if you're well." Perhaps she noticed the hitch earlier. "You seem sturdy."

She takes a lean against the frame in that doorway leading into the master and waits facing the corridor for Mark to emerge. Once he's joined her in the hall, so she can see him when she speaks, she says, "You should try again. Nonverbal communication is rarely the full measure of a person." Though sometimes it is startlingly accurate.

"Fell into a nightmare, had some guys go at me with axes. A kid's still got my shovel. Less sturdy than I was." Mark's turned away when she asks about his wellbeing. He's even admiring a cabinet. Well, admiring might be a bit strong. He's checking out whether or the the doors on the timber construction are particularly noisy. They're not. It's about as nonchalant a physical action as the words that left him. Because, you know, that's totally a normal thing to say to a realtor.

Actually, in this town? Possibly true.

He's only back in the hallway after he's done a like-for-like check on the back door. Unlocking it from the inside latch, giving it a little open to check out the view and if the frame has shifted at all, then pulling it closed and re-locking it without a second thought. But with another little curious noise. Probably satisfied, maybe not. It might have just been the movement of his arm stretching at his torso, come to think of it.

And then he's emerging back in the hallway, doing a quick little double-take at the casual position Lucinda's taken up against the frame. It's almost as if he's pretty clued in that she's not entirely a legit realtor. Possibly. Maybe. The formation of a thought is there, at least. "Ah, nah. Not sure it'd work out all that well. Not sure if it was the pills or me, but I feel like a Toyota Corolla ain't exactly her idea of a ride worth paying for. Or we'd drive one another insane sooner rather than later." A little shrug, complete lack of sheepish smile. Mark's expression is often one of 'It is what it is', after all.

"I'm familiar with falling." That's all Lucinda says to the mention of the nightmare, to the shovel, to the axes. Her gaze remains on Mark for a long moment after that, though.

If anything was going to tell Mark she's not here to sell him a house, it was probably the B&E, which really could have gone more smoothly. She's a little out of practice, maybe. Then again, he seems keen on the place, and she seems... she seems present.

"You may be right about one or both things, but in a small town, a person learns to work with what they've got on hand." Luce squints, eyes going a bit unfocused, likely picturing that nondescript car out front. "You're probably right." How often does Mark hear that phrase? You're welcome, Mark. The blonde shoulders off of the door frame. "Sounds like a bullet dodged." She reaches up to touch the frame, her hand sliding down the painted wood. It's nicely fitted, square, and freshly painted. The enamel is glossy and smooth. "I hate it when they paint the woodwork," she murmurs.

Mark greets the news that they're both a little aware of things with little more than a nod. There's a stare for a second, sure, but the nod snaps him out of it, a hand pulling his phone out of his pocket. Possibly a little slower than is really necessary. It might be the gaze, or the RBF, or both, but he's acutely aware of slow, deliberate movements being his best option right now. It probably comes with the territory, whatever that so happens to be.

"Bullet dodged. Yeah." Like that really happens. It either hits you or it doesn't. Bullets are really quick. Well, most of them. We're digressing. "'s'cuse me a second." He continues, glancing up at the wood frame Lucinda's hand is running over for a moment while he sends off a text, taking an extra moment to nod. "Probably came that way. Looks like post-renovation architrave. Scratch it with a nail, see if it's MDF."

Luce's fingers come off the painted frame, nails neat and short. She turns her wrist and scores the paint. She is silent for a moment, though her vigilance in watching where Mark's hand are has slipped somewhat. She glances toward the front of the house as a rattle sounds from the gate out front. Either someone's moving through it or it's blown in the wind, and neither of them re-latched it on entry. She doesn't look back to Mark as he pulls out his phone. It's clear when he sends it, because the phone in her pocket promptly chirps a few seconds later. Like two seconds later. "This place could be quite lovely with a little stain and woodwork."

Lucinda reaches back to slide her fingers under her jacket to the back pocket of her skinny jeans, and only once the phone is in hand does she look down at it. She doesn't look at Mark. Instead, she unlocks her phone, deftly taps her thumbs across it. She pokes the send button and then slips it into her back pocket again.

For a split-second, Mark's eyes narrow at the sound of a chirping phone. You can almost hear the fanbelt going as his brain ponders, considers, decides it was merely a coincidence, and then shakes it off and settles on watching where her nail scores into the paint. The rattling gate goes completely unnoticed, he's too busy with the whole 'looking' thing, and nodding in satisfaction once more as the phone is slid back into his pocket. "Yup, MDF. Fuckin' knew it."

And then his phone dings. Of course it would be after it's put away. "I'm more a fan of exposed brick, but hell, I could make this place work."

Slipping his hand back out of his pocket, once again with the phone, there's a good few moments of looking at the screen. And then a slow tilt of his head to look up at Lucinda. Glance down to the screen. Back up to Lucinda. A soft clicking noise echoes from his cheek. "You're... not the Realtor."

"I like exposed brick too. It's visually stunning and it's a nice feel." Given the way Luce has touched almost every surface in the house, there's no mistaking her tactile nature. She probably left her fingerprints on half the surfaces in here. There's a glance over when he pulls out his phone again. She watches his face. She watches him look up and look at her. And down and back.

"I'm definitely not your realtor." But he knew that already, didn't he? The corner of Luce's mouth twitches. "I was thinking about making a purchase, but ownership isn't my... favorite." She turns those bright blue eyes to Mark again. "Luce. Librarian, among other things." Emphasis on other things. "The weather here is abysmal, but in the five minutes a day that it stops, it's almost nice."

"Definitely not a realtor." Mark seems to eventually agree, shifting the phone down into his pocket. Sure, he probably already knew that, but it's good to hear personal confirmation, you know? His smile flashes for a second, and there's a little twitch that suggests he's going to offer out his hand. The twinge in his face from a bolt of ache and pain puts an end to that idea. You gotta move from the hand first, man, not the shoulder.

"Mark. Driver, among other things. Usually for packages. Guess it won't be for people." Well, it's not like you can take back a second impression, after all. "The weather here's for shit." He agrees, turning to peer around her and catch a sight through one of the windows at the current weather, giving a little shrug and a downturn at the edge of his mouth as the clouds seem to be rolling in once more. "But I've been an accomplice to B&E's with worse. Think I'm gonna take this place." A pointed hand towards where the wall meets ceiling. "Can't see any water issues, at least."

Lucinda’s amusement increases a hair when Mark locks in the connection. That’s gone after a moment, though. Just her face again. “So I’ll text you only in emergencies.” No door’s fully shut until bricked over.

There’s a moment where Lucinda watches the micro changes on Mark’s face. “Did you say axes earlier?”

“That was barely a B, let alone an E. You should get better locks.” He knows that. She points it out anyway. “I checked the bedroom walls. Seems sound. I think this is a wise choice, particularly if you’re at all gifted in minor repairs.”

"Hell, text me whenever you like. You wanted a car that's allergen free? I gotta vac the bastard every weekend as is." Mark doesn't have to, he just does. Twenty year old habits die hard, and die slow. And it seems he's one to keep that door open too. Probably for the money.

"Yeah, Axes. I'm currently wearing Gray Harbor's latest fashion trend of 167 stitches, I think something like 140 of those are my chest alone. Fuckin'-" A glance is thrown her way. His smile seems a little... not hollow. Just uncaring. Like it's an everyday discussion. "-weird day. Wood lumberjack men. As in... they were wood too. Ah. Fun times. And, Thank you, but of course I'm gonna get better locks. And ask for about 3.5 off the askin'." Thanks to her advice. "Thanks to your advice." See?

Lucinda's expression doesn't change, but her gaze falls to Mark's hoodie. Of course, his chest is hidden, as are his arms, but it's not hard to see the's thinking about how much coverage it takes to warrant 167 sutures in flesh. She does the math quickly, or gives up, because her gaze comes back up to Mark's face. "I think I read a short story like that once." That sends her thinking on another track, and her eyes slightly to the left.

"You just might get that price." Though Lucinda isn't a realtor, she sounds fairly sure of that fact. "Mark." She says his name before she steps out of the doorway and closer to him into the hall. "It was my pleasure to meet you." She doesn't offer him a hand or otherwise move any closer, but she makes it clear by proximity that there's no longer a temptation to mace him. Her hands slide into her pockets. His chest may sting sharply then itch a bit.

"If you start mentioning something about Lizzie Borden, I'm gonna hold my hands up and say 'Too damn soon.'" Mark watches Luce's face drop. Judging by the fact he doesn't shift at all, there might be the slight inkling that he's used to being injured, and more so to people staring at him in a very similar way. His eyes also track slightly to the left. Which is convenient, it means he's looking the other way when she takes that step closer. "Luce. You too. I think. I mean that's kinda the thing I'd have to wait and see about. Especially if I end up in cuffs."

The end of that word goes up an octave as his eyes snap back in her direction. Only the eyes, though. Sure, his head moves later, hands still stuck in his own pockets, but that part would be a sloooow move. Still obviously wary of startling in any way. There's a hint. Just a hint of eye-narrowing. "Oh." A hand leaves his pocket. Scratches at one part of his chest very, very gently. It's coupled with a little glance down, too. "You're one of those." Toneless. There doesn't seem to be judgement about this, for good or ill.

After a moment, he looks back up. "You know I've now gotta pull a shitload of stitches out of a healed wound myself, right?" Okay, there's a hint of a smile on that one. "And if you're still looking for lodgings when the paperwork's done, I think we could make an arrangement."

"I'm sure Lizzie was justified if she is indeed guilty," is Luce's reply to that. Her brows tick up slightly before her expression smoothes. "What makes you think you'd end up in cuffs?"

She's relaxed and personable until his eyes snap to her. And his expression changes. "I'm sorry." She almost takes a step back. Her heel comes off the floor, but then she doesn't. "I should have asked. Impolite." One may get the impression she doesn't apologize often. She clears her throat very lightly. "I've removed stitches before if you think it'll be a problem. I have a pair of very sharp embroidery scissors and excellent eyesight."

At the mention of housing, she pauses again. "I have a meeting with potential roommates tonight. I keep my options open."

"You would say that." Mark doesn't know the woman. It's a guess. I mean, technically, he's right, what with the whole 'She actually said it', thing. Mark was a great detective. Luce's question just gets a shrug. A proper one, now, hands up and out of his pockets for it and everything. The wince is far, far less. "Look at me. I'm a guy that ends up in cuffs a whole bunch. You dress an' look like me, folks think you're homeless, don't bother you that much. Also means cops usually finger you first thing when somethin's gone down."

Ignore that he used to be a cop. And is actually, technically homeless. Minor points.

"Ah." She gets a hand waved her way, his face softening immediately at the sight of her whole demeanor changing. "Don't you worry about it. You were doing a nice thing. Just caught me by suprise, is all. I'm..." His hand is the perfect gesture of vagueness, waving around as he tries to accurately portray a sentiment to elucidate with words that he just doesn't know. "Dense. Blind. Muted to the whole thing. Worked with a guy who said he could kinda see it? I can't. At all."

Even his body language has changed. He's hunched a little, an attempt to make himself that little bit smaller. And he doesn't look hurt at all by the notion she's already got a place lined up. "I can tell. Potential roommates but still looking at places on the market? What. They get your ire or somethin'?"

There's a lengthy pause as Lucinda considers all of that, and to the last she finally says, to the very last question, about why she's still considering options for roommates: "One of them is a cop."

She doesn't look like someone who'd have a hesitation about rooming with a cop (that whole minor B&E thing aside). Luce doesn't not look like someone who'd hesitate to room with a cop either. "A captain, I think, by the stripes and all that. I have to look it up." So there's one thing she hasn't bothered learning — the markings of anyone over detective.

"Most people can't. I don't usually get involved, but... that's a lot of stitches." She pauses, glancing down briefly before her blue eyes come back up. "And this house is going to need some work. The house deserves it." The house deserves you, Mark! She healed you because you're going to fix it up.

Mark greets that news with very little surprise. But has he greeted anything other than suddenly losing most of a chest wound with it so far? His foot scuffs the hardwood floor for a moment as he shifts, then lets the hand drop back down to his side, watching the woman for just a moment. "Nothin' wrong with living with a cop. Hours are a pain in the ass. Probably gonna be late for everything. And Captain's two bars." Well, there's your information in return. The guy's either an Ex-cop, is a teribly bad undercover cop, or the ex-wife was one. Take your dealer's choice.

He pats his chest. On the healed side. Lightly. And actually smiles. Like, a proper damn smile. "It was a lot of axes. I kinda started it, soo... You know. Got what I deserved. I had a head wound too, but there was this kid did the same thing you do." Even more info! He's just giving it out today. He even keeps talking as he turns to take in the sight of the place once more, actually going as far as turning his back on her. "It's gonna need less than I thought, though. And offer'll be open on that master bedroom for a while, as long as you don't mind the sound of a belt sander from time to time. There's too much damn paint."

That'd probably be his way of saying 'thank you,' then.

Luce watches Mark for a moment, thinking on those words. "Yeah, the pins. Captain." She nods after a moment. "I have some interests that probably he wouldn't like, recreational drug use aside. And it's a bit rude to involve your potential roommate in things when he's got a retirement to protect." She considers this a moment more, perhaps trying to decide which Mark is. By his car and his general knowledge, she may have come to one of those conclusions.

She glances up and around, then looks back into the room she just left, now clearly giving that some thought. "I do like this house." Lucinda ponders that, then asks, "Are you allergic to rabbit-skin glue, beeswax, or any particular scents?"

"Psych evals are always great when they ask 'How's the home life' and you've got a recreational drug user in your house who uses the living room to bootleg shit." Just in case you forget the age difference, Mark has to pull reference to the time when bootlegs were largely physical, turning around with a finger rubbing softly at the side of his nose. "If it's a nice place, though..." He seems to settle on, offering out a palm up in something of an agreement. Captain or no, a nice place is a nice place.

"I think I could do a lot with it, yeah." He agrees with the state of the place. Agreements all around right now, it seems, stepping to one side and wiping a finger along one of the sills. Only fair he adds his own bundle of fingerprints, after all. "No allergies that I know of. And there's space for a bookshelf or eight in the living area." Looks like he figured out the rough idea there pretty quick. It's hard to tell if he's clearly giving the idea thought or not, what with the usual plain-of-face mask the guy has.

"It's an 80s monstrosity," she says. Luce's nose twitches slightly at that. She put her hands all over this house. It's mostly Craftsman despite some after mods like some of the 'woodwork' inside. But it's clearly old, a bit creaky, and the floors likely pre-date the other place. "That said, befriend a captain could have its advantages if something goes awry and I get caught doing anything... questionable." The likelihood of that isn't high, but everyone likes a good redundancy. "The girl living there is distracting enough that most anything I ever do will fly right under the radar."

Luce's focus sharpens when Mark mentions room for bookshelves. She just stares at him for a long moment. "Built-ins?"

"If you're staying for the people rather than the place, why not just befriend the people?" Max is pretty blunt when he needs to be, crooking a beckoning hand her way before he, with very little ado, heads on into the main living area of the property, that beckoning hand turning to point out a plain dividing wall between it and another part of the home. "What do you reckon this place is, 20's? 30's? Earlier? Easily fit built-in bookcases along the entirety of that wall, leaving the supporting joists in place. Did it in our last place, just a case of plastering being a pain in the ass when you're done."

Mark seems... oddly focused at this point. Latching on to the subject she seemed to be the most interested in and rolling with it. Seem's he's a slightly more targeted guy when he's actually got something to target on.

"I'm not a realtor," Luce murmurs. Was that a joke? "But I'd guess 1929 to 1932." That's oddly specific.

"Glass faced doors for the lower section would be nice. Chemically etched." Lucinda moves out the few steps it takes to go from the hall to the room in question. She stands there staring at one of the walls, arms going loosely crossed. She tips her head and glances up the wall. "You shouldn't make too many plans before the — " Just as she's saying that, there's a key in the lock, and the front door swings open.

"Yeah, but you know your history." Mark quickly replies, swiveling on his heels with a slight wobble to turn in her direction when she mentions the years. Oh, he's so pleased in that instant. You could almost feel it.

"You'd have plenty of room. And there's always more walls. Plaster's just cavity space with aesthetics." Okay, wait, who is trying to sell who on the house right now, because this is getting remarkably confus-Oh. It would be Brenda. Brenda was supposed to be trying to sell the house. Mark swivels again, his coat flapping out a little with the gusto of the turn before he has to plant a foot a little more than a shoulder-width apart to steady himself, greeting the actual Realtor with an ever-so-slightly manic-tinged smile. He was aiming for amiable and over-shot.

"Weber! Yes! Hi!" Oh god he's mimicking her tone. "Three grand off the price and we'll take it."