PART 3
I sat on the edge of the mattress while he remained standing beside the tiny kitchenette, watching the front door as though expecting someone to knock.
The first page contained one sentence written in neat handwriting.
If anything happens to me, Mom deserves the truth.
My throat tightened.
The next pages were dated.
March 4
Grandpa Richard asked if I could let Aunt Chloe stay for one weekend because the boys wanted to visit the beach.
I said yes.
Mom always says helping family matters.
I smiled sadly despite everything.
That sounded exactly like Liam.
He had always been the child who shared his lunch, volunteered first, and apologized even when someone else bumped into him.
I turned the page.
March 18
They didn’t leave.
Grandpa says Mom won’t mind because she “has more money than she knows what to do with.”
Dad keeps telling me this house is basically his anyway because he helped raise me.
I stopped reading.
“Your father said that?”
Liam nodded without looking at me.
“He started coming over almost every day.”
I kept turning pages.
April 2
Chloe moved furniture into the garage.
My bike is outside now.
My room feels smaller every week.
April 17.
Dad asked me to sign some insurance papers.
I refused because they had Mom’s name on them.
He laughed and said I was being paranoid.
April 28.
I think someone opened my laptop while I was at class.
Password changed.
Nothing stolen.
Just… different.
My hands were beginning to shake.
Then I reached May.
Every page became darker.
May 9
I overheard Grandpa saying, “Once the transfer clears, she’ll never notice until tax season.”
I looked up sharply.
“What transfer?”
Liam swallowed.
“I didn’t know then.”
He walked to the folding table and pulled out a manila envelope.
Inside were photocopies.
County forms.
Property records.
A quitclaim deed.
My name appeared on the first page.
Then my signature.
Except…
It wasn’t my signature.
It looked almost identical.
The looping S.
The long tail beneath the H.
The little flourish I had developed after signing thousands of accounting documents.
But it wasn’t mine.
I knew it instantly.
Someone had forged it.
I stared at the document until the words blurred.
“This… this was filed eight months ago.”
Liam nodded.
“The county accepted it.”
The grantee’s name made my stomach drop.
David Morgan.
My ex-husband.
I could barely breathe.
“He stole my house.”
“No,” Liam said softly.
“They stole it.”
I stood so quickly the notebook fell onto the floor.
“I’m calling the police.”
Liam grabbed my wrist.
“No!”
“Liam—”
“You have to listen first!”
His voice cracked.
For the first time since arriving, I saw genuine terror instead of exhaustion.
“They’re expecting you to call.”
“What?”
“They want you angry.”
“That makes no sense.”
He took a deep breath and picked up the notebook again.
“Keep reading.”
June 1
Dad introduced me to a man named Victor.
Said he was a real estate investor.
Victor knew the square footage of the house without asking.
He also knew Mom’s birthday.
June 11.
Someone followed me from campus.
Gray SUV.
North Carolina plate.
Parked outside the coffee shop for forty minutes.
June 16.
I finally told Dad I wasn’t signing anything.
He smiled.
That scared me more than yelling.
I closed the notebook.
“This isn’t about family, is it?”
Liam slowly shook his head.
“No.”
He opened his laptop.
Unlike everything else in the apartment, it looked new.
“I bought this used after my old one disappeared.”
He clicked through folders until security camera footage filled the screen.
A timestamp showed 2:14 AM.
The beach house driveway appeared empty.
Then headlights.
A gray SUV rolled into frame.
My breath caught.
A man stepped out wearing gloves.
Not David.
