“Before you get comfortable,” I said, “you should check who actually owns this house.”
Patrick’s face changed instantly.
Margaret stopped smiling.
For the first time that night, only the rain spoke.
We spent the night in a cheap motel near the highway. The carpet smelled old, the television didn’t work, and the bathroom light kept flickering. But my children were dry. They were safe.
Benjamin sat by the window, watching the parking lot like he was already older than thirteen. The girls helped the twins into bed. When the room finally quieted, I pulled out the yellow folder.
Inside were legal documents, a USB drive, and a letter from Andrew.
His handwriting was shaky.
Cynthia, I’m sorry you have to face this. They never accepted you, but they cannot take what we built. The house is in a trust. You are in charge of it. The children are protected. If they try anything, Rebecca has everything. My father has been moving company money for years. Don’t be afraid.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from breaking down.
