Chapter 2 - The Three Thousand DollarsThe police took Mason into the living room.
My mother kept shouting.
My aunt Betsy cried.
My uncle pretended not to understand what was happening.
And Amy stood beside me, holding Frederick while the paramedics checked his temperature.
But I could not stop thinking about the deed.
The officer explained that the document itself did not automatically mean my house had been transferred.
There would be an investigation.
Forgery could be involved.
Fraud could be involved.
But when he turned another page, my stomach tightened.
There was an authorization form.
My mother had listed herself as my financial representative.
I had never signed anything like it.
“You should have this reviewed by an attorney immediately,” the officer told me.
I nodded.
Then he lowered his voice.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
He pointed toward my mother.
“Your mother told us you gave her legal authority to manage your property.”
My mother crossed her arms.
“I did nothing wrong.”
I looked at her.
“You told the police you manage my property?”
“I manage family matters.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She said nothing.
That night, Amy and I took Frederick to the emergency room.
Thankfully, his fever wasn't dangerous, but the doctor said we had done the right thing bringing him in.
Amy barely spoke.
On the drive home, she stared through the passenger window.
Finally she said, “I’m sorry.”
I nearly slammed on the brakes.
“For what?”
“For letting this happen.”
I turned toward her.
“Amy, you didn't do this.”
“She told me you wanted her in charge.”
“What?”
“She said you had told her that she knew how to run the household better than I did.”
I felt my hands tighten around the steering wheel.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
She looked down.
“She also told me you were disappointed in me.”
I felt sick.
“What else?”
Amy hesitated.
“She said I was spending too much money.”
I stared straight ahead.
“How much?”
“She said you were angry about the grocery bills.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the lie was so complete.
I hadn't even seen the grocery bills.
Teresa handled everything.
I trusted her.
For the first time, I wondered exactly where my three thousand dollars every month had gone.
When we got home, Amy went upstairs with Frederick.
I stayed in the kitchen.
I opened my banking app.
Then I searched every transfer to Teresa.
Month after month.
$3,000.
$3,000.
$3,000.
$3,000.
Twelve months.
Thirty-six thousand dollars.
My mother had received thirty-six thousand dollars from me in one year.
I opened our grocery receipts.
There weren't enough to explain even half of that.
I checked utility payments.
Same problem.
Baby expenses.
Same problem.
I called my bank.
“Can you tell me where these funds went after they reached the account?”
The banker asked me a security question.
I answered.
Then silence.
“Mr. Bradley, several transfers were made from that account to another financial institution.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t disclose all details without additional authorization.”
I felt my pulse rise.
“Then tell me the name of the receiving account.”
He did.
Bradley Home Solutions LLC.
I had never heard of it.
The next morning, I searched the company.
My blood went cold.
Bradley Home Solutions was registered under my mother's name.
But it wasn't a real construction company.
It owned two properties.
One was a rental home.
The other was a commercial building in downtown Nashville.
Both had been purchased within the past fourteen months.
I called Amy.
“Come downstairs.”
She looked worried.
I showed her my phone.
Her mouth fell open.
“She bought those?”
“With our money.”
Amy sat down.
Then she whispered something that made everything worse.
“Connor…”
“What?”
“I remember seeing those addresses.”
“Where?”
“In some envelopes.”
“What envelopes?”
She stood up suddenly.
“Your mother used to leave mail on our kitchen table.”
She walked to a cabinet.
A minute later, she returned holding a stack of papers.
“These.”
I opened one.
Bank statements.
Not mine.
My mother’s.
Then another document.
A loan agreement.
The borrower was Teresa Bradley.
The collateral was listed as a property on our street.
I read the address.
My address.
My house.
I looked at Amy.
“This can't be legal.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe she used your house as collateral.”
“But how?”
A thought struck me.
“Do you remember when my mother asked me to sign something during the holidays?”
Amy frowned.
“The document she said was for taxes?”
I froze.
“Yes.”
“You signed it?”
“I thought it was a tax authorization.”
Amy stared at me.
“She took it into the study afterward.”
I felt a chill run through my entire body.
That evening, I called an attorney.
I explained everything.
The attorney asked one question.
“Did your mother ever have access to your identification documents?”
“Yes.”
“Your Social Security information?”
“I don't know.”
“Banking records?”
“Possibly.”
He paused.
“Then you need to assume this is larger than a family dispute.”
I looked at Amy.
The house was silent upstairs.
Our son was sleeping.
My attorney continued.
“Do not confront your mother alone.”
That warning came too late.
Because at that exact moment, someone knocked on our front door.
Three slow knocks.
I looked through the glass.
My mother stood outside.
But she wasn't alone.
Two men in dark suits stood behind her.
One held a briefcase.
My mother smiled through the window.
Then she raised a single sheet of paper.
A legal notice.
I opened the door only a few inches.
“What do you want?”
She smiled.
“To discuss the house.”
I didn't move.
May you like
Then she said six words that made my blood run cold.
“You don't own it anymore, Connor.”
