Chapter 3 - The House Had Never Belonged to Them
I spent the rest of the morning trying to prove Wren wrong.
I searched old emails.
Tax documents.
Insurance correspondence.
Anything that might show who owned the house.
Most records listed Dad and Mom.
But ownership and responsibility were not the same thing.
And I knew almost nothing about property law.
So I called a lawyer.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I needed facts.
Her name was Evelyn Hart.
Simone's cousin had recommended her.
I brought the photographs to her office.
She studied them without interrupting.
When she reached the photograph of the brown envelope, she stopped.
“Where is the original?”
“My family has it.”
“Then get it.”
“How?”
“Do not confront them. Do not threaten them. Do not accuse them of anything you can't prove.”
She looked at me.
“And stop paying their bills immediately.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
She examined the certified notice.
“This is interesting.”
“What?”
“It references a trust.”
“What kind?”
She zoomed into the letter.
“Your grandmother created a revocable living trust. Upon her death, certain assets were transferred to a beneficiary.”
“Me?”
“Your name appears here.”
My pulse climbed.
“Does that mean I own the house?”
“Not necessarily yet.”
I frowned.
“Then what does it mean?”
“We need the full trust instrument. The deed. Any amendments. Any mortgage documents. Any recorded transfer.”
“Could my parents have changed it?”
“After your grandmother's death?”
“Yes.”
“Not if the transfer was completed correctly.”
I sat back.
Evelyn folded her hands.
“Cassidy, there's something else.”
“What?”
“The house appears to have undergone a refinancing transaction approximately four years ago.”
“That's when I started paying.”
“Exactly.”
She looked at me.
“Were you involved?”
“I was told Dad couldn't work. Mom asked me to help with one payment.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“I signed paperwork at a bank.”
“What paperwork?”
“I thought it was just authorization for automatic payments.”
She frowned.
“Do you have copies?”
“No.”
“Then your first priority is finding out what you signed.”
My phone buzzed.
Wren.
I answered.
“Hey.”
“Cassidy, don't come back to the house.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Brent's there with two men.”
“What men?”
“I don't know.”
“What are they doing?”
“They're measuring rooms.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
“Like contractors?”
“I don't think so.”
“Wren, where are you?”
“In my room.”
“Lock the door.”
“Cassidy…”
“What?”
“I found Grandma's jewelry box.”
My breath caught.
“My room?”
“No. Brent brought it upstairs.”
“What?”
“I saw him carrying it.”
Grandma Florence's wooden jewelry box was the one thing I had taken with me.
At least I thought I had.
I opened my suitcase.
The box was not there.
I had packed it.
I remembered placing it between two sweaters.
But it was gone.
“Wren, listen to me.”
“Okay.”
“Don't tell Brent about this call.”
“I won't.”
“Stay away from Dad's office.”
“Why?”
“Because I think they're looking for something.”
“What?”
“I don't know yet.”
Then the line went dead.
I drove back toward the neighborhood.
I stopped two blocks away.
I watched the house from my car.
Brent came outside.
One of the men followed.
The man held a folder.
Brent pointed toward the front entrance.
Then the man opened the folder and shook his head.
Brent looked furious.
A second later, Dad appeared.
They spoke quietly.
Then Dad looked directly toward the street.
I ducked.
My phone buzzed again.
A text from an unknown number.
Stop digging.
I stared at it.
Another message arrived.
Your grandmother made a mistake. Don't make it worse.
I showed Evelyn.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Do not respond.
Then:
Take screenshots.
Then:
I need the original trust documents.
I asked Wren whether she could find anything.
She replied ten minutes later.
I think I know where Dad hid them.
She sent a photograph of a basement cabinet.
Then another.
The final photo showed a metal safe.
Wren wrote:
The key is in Mom's bedroom.
I stared at the screen.
My family had just spent Thanksgiving telling me I was an unwanted burden.
Now they were hiding a safe containing documents Grandma left behind.
And someone was texting me to stop looking.
This was no longer about being kicked out.
That night, Evelyn called me.
“I pulled the public property record.”
“And?”
Silence.
“Cassidy, the deed history contains something you need to see.”
“What?”
“The house wasn't transferred to your parents when your grandmother died.”
My heart pounded.
“Then who?”
“You.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then why are my parents on the mortgage?”
“That,” Evelyn said carefully, “is the problem.”
“What problem?”
“The mortgage was modified four years ago.”
“By whom?”
“That's what we're going to find out.”
I looked at the date.
Four years earlier.
The month after Dad's accident.
The exact month I began paying.
Evelyn lowered her voice.
“And Cassidy?”
May you like
“Yeah?”
“I think someone used your name in that refinancing.”
