Elaine Vance had worked 16-hour days for 22 years, first as a cafeteria worker at the local elementary school, then as a night shift janitor at the downtown office building, to save up enough money for a down payment on a small home. She’d never asked for anything for herself, never taken a vacation, never bought new clothes unless the old ones had holes too big to patch. All she’d ever wanted was a house with a small backyard, where she could plant tomatoes and host cookouts for Marcus and her grandkids one day.
The fire had started in the wiring of their 100-year-old apartment building at 2 a.m. The landlord had ignored their requests to fix the frayed outlets for two years, saying it was “too expensive” to repair. Marcus had gotten out with only a few burns on his arms, but Elaine had been trapped in the kitchen, trying to grab the shoebox of cash she’d hidden under the sink, her entire life savings for that down payment.
She’d woken up for 10 minutes the day before she died, her voice rough from smoke inhalation, and told him the story she’d never told him before. Ten years earlier, she’d saved up $20,000 for a down payment on a small two-bedroom bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. She’d worn her nicest dress to Platinum Estates, the one she only wore to church, and asked an agent to show her the house. The agent had looked her up and down, seen the cafeteria worker name tag still pinned to her purse, and laughed in her face.
“He said those homes are for people who can actually afford to keep them up,” Elaine had whispered, her eyes glistening with tears. “I was so embarrassed, I left and never tried again. I didn’t want to tell you, baby. I didn’t want you to think you had to fight the whole world just to get a fair shot.”
She’d died 12 hours later, holding Marcus’s hand. The second the nurse turned off the heart monitor, Marcus had made a promise to her: he was going to take down Platinum Estates. He was going to make sure no one else ever had to go through what she did.
