CHAPTER 2 — THE NAME ON THE DEED
It was exactly what Fiona had always done throughout our lives.
Whenever she wanted something, she transformed her own mistakes into someone else’s responsibility.
When she dropped out of college, it was because our parents had “pressured” her into choosing the wrong major.
When she and Gregory lost their first house, it was because the bank had “targeted working families.”
When Gregory’s construction company collapsed, it was because his business partner had “betrayed” him.
And now, apparently, taking over our parents’ anniversary home was an act of survival.
I turned toward Gregory.
“How long have you been telling my parents to leave?”
His jaw tightened.
“Nobody told them to leave.”
My father looked down at the cardboard box near his feet.
Gregory noticed.
“That box means nothing,” he said quickly. “Samuel was already packing some old things.”
Dad finally found his voice.
“He packed it.”
The room went silent.
Gregory’s face hardened.
My father pointed toward him with a trembling hand.
“He packed our clothes this morning. He said he was driving us to a motel in Seaside.”
Mom pressed the dish towel against her mouth as another sob escaped.
Fiona rolled her eyes.
“We were trying to make the transition easier.”
“The transition?” I repeated.
She stepped forward.
“Lucas, be reasonable. Mom and Dad cannot manage a property this size. The taxes, utilities, repairs—it is too much. Gregory and I have two growing boys. We could maintain the house.”
I glanced around.
There were wet towels thrown over antique chairs. Sand covered the hardwood floor. A jagged crack ran across the lower corner of the front window. Three empty beer cans sat on the entry table beside my father’s medication.
“You call this maintaining it?”
“The boys had friends over,” Fiona said. “Teenagers make messes.”
I picked up one of the beer cans.
Her sons were sixteen and fourteen.
“Whose beer?”
Fiona said nothing.
I set the can down.
Then I looked at Mom’s wrist.
“Who grabbed you?”
She immediately pulled her sleeve lower.
“Nobody.”
“Mom.”
She glanced at Fiona before looking away.
That single glance told me everything.
I turned toward my sister.
“What happened?”
Fiona’s expression shifted from annoyance to outrage.
“You cannot walk into this house and interrogate me.”
“I own this house.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
Gregory’s confidence cracked for the first time.
His eyes narrowed.
“What did you say?”
“The deed is in my name.”
Fiona blinked.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then she laughed.
It was not an amused laugh. It was sharp and nervous.
“No, it is not. You gave the house to Mom and Dad.”
“I gave them lifetime use of it. I retained ownership.”
Gregory stared at my father.
“You told us Lucas transferred it to you.”
Dad swallowed.
“We said he bought it for us.”
“You deliberately misled us,” Gregory snapped.
My mother flinched.
I stepped between him and my father.
“Lower your voice.”
Gregory moved closer until only a few feet separated us.
“You think a piece of paper gives you the right to come in here and threaten my family?”
“I have not threatened anyone.”
“You are trying to throw children into the street.”
“Your children have a home.”
Fiona’s face went pale.
I had learned from Mom during an earlier phone call that Fiona and Gregory still owned a three-bedroom house outside Salem. It was not luxurious, but it was perfectly livable.
Fiona had complained that the neighborhood was “going downhill,” but she had never mentioned losing the property.
I studied her expression.
“Unless there is something you have not told us.”
Gregory looked at Fiona.
Fiona looked at the floor.
There it was.
A secret.
“What happened to your house?” I asked.
Neither answered.
My father sat down slowly on the lowest stair. His breathing had become shallow, and sweat shone along his forehead.
Mom rushed toward him.
“Samuel?”
I knelt beside Dad.
“Are you having chest pain?”
He shook his head, but his left hand was clenched against his shirt.
“Dad, look at me.”
His face had turned gray.
I reached for my phone.
Gregory grabbed my wrist.
“He is doing this for attention.”
I looked down at Gregory’s hand.
“Let go of me.”
“He has been pretending to be sick every time we discuss the house.”
“Take your hand off me.”
Something in my voice finally reached him.
He released me.
I called emergency services.
While we waited, Mom knelt beside Dad, whispering his name. Fiona remained near the counter, pale and stiff, while Gregory paced through the room muttering about manipulation.
The paramedics arrived within minutes.
As they examined Dad, one of them asked whether he had been under unusual stress.
Mom looked at Gregory.
“Yes,” she whispered.
My father was taken to the hospital for evaluation.
I rode with Mom while Fiona and Gregory remained behind.
Before leaving, I stood in the doorway and looked directly at Gregory.
“Do not remove anything from this house.”
He folded his arms.
“You cannot order me around.”
“I just did.”
At the hospital, doctors determined Dad had suffered a severe panic episode combined with dangerously elevated blood pressure. He had not experienced a heart attack, but the physician said the stress could easily trigger one if it continued.
Mom sat beside his bed holding his hand.
For nearly an hour, she said nothing.
Then, without looking at me, she whispered, “We tried to make them leave.”
I waited.
“Gregory said they had tenant rights. He said if we called the police, he would tell them your father threatened the boys.”
“Did Dad threaten them?”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“He barely speaks around Gregory anymore.”
“What happened to your wrist?”
Mom began crying again.
“Fiona grabbed me when I tried to call you.”
My chest tightened.
“She told me I was being selfish. She said the house should eventually belong to her because she gave us grandchildren.”
I stared at the white hospital wall, forcing myself to remain calm.
“How long have they been planning this?”
“I do not know. Gregory brought papers for your father to sign. He said they were needed to transfer utilities.”
“What papers?”
“I never saw them properly. Samuel refused.”
“Where are they now?”
“Gregory took them back.”
I leaned closer.
“Did either of you sign anything?”
Mom shook her head.
“I did not. Your father said he did not.”
But something in her expression worried me.
“What are you not telling me?”
She hesitated.
“Yesterday, Gregory brought a notary.”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“For what?”
“He said your father had already agreed to sign over his interest in the property.”
“Dad does not have an ownership interest.”
“I know that now.”
“What happened?”
“Samuel refused again. Gregory became furious. He said he had invested too much to walk away with nothing.”
Invested.
That word stayed with me.
“What exactly did he invest?”
Mom looked toward Dad, who was sleeping beneath a thin hospital blanket.
“I heard him tell Fiona that once the property was theirs, the bank would stop calling.”
The pieces began fitting together.
Their house outside Salem was either heavily mortgaged or already gone.
Gregory had debts.
And he believed the oceanfront property could save him.
My phone vibrated.
It was a motion alert from the security system I had installed when I purchased the mansion.
I opened the camera feed.
Gregory and Fiona were moving quickly through the upstairs hallway.
They were carrying boxes.
One of the boys dragged a suitcase toward the garage.
At first, I assumed they were leaving.
Then I saw Gregory enter my parents’ bedroom.
He opened the antique writing desk where Dad kept important documents.
Thirty seconds later, he emerged holding a blue folder.
I recognized it immediately.
It contained copies of the house purchase records, insurance paperwork, and the signed lifetime occupancy agreement.
Gregory tucked the folder beneath his jacket.
Then he turned toward the hallway camera.
May you like
He stared directly into the lens.
And smiled.
