Jessica’s face didn’t change. But her hand moved to her pocket.
Helen’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Margaret? Is everything all right?”
“I need you to pull the deed on my property. Right now. And check if any documents have been filed in the last six months.”
There was a pause. Then Helen’s tone shifted. Professional. Alert.
“Stay on the line.”
David stepped forward, hand outstretched like he was approaching something fragile. “Mom, you’re overreacting. We didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” I kept the phone pressed to my ear. “Didn’t think I’d come home early? Didn’t think I’d notice my entire bedroom was gone?”
Jessica’s jaw tightened. “We were going to tell you. We’re turning that space into a home studio. It’s an investment in our business.”
“Your business.” I repeated the words slowly. “In my house.”
“Our house,” Jessica corrected. Her voice was calm. Too calm. Like she’d rehearsed this.
Helen came back on the line. “Margaret, the deed is still in your name. Sole owner. But there’s something you need to know.”
My chest tightened.
“Two months ago, someone attempted to file a quitclaim deed transferring the property to David Mitchell and Jessica Mitchell. It was rejected because it lacked your notarized signature.”
The world tilted.
I looked at my son. My only child. The boy I’d rocked to sleep. The man I’d bailed out of debt.
“You tried to steal my house.”
David’s face went white. “No. Mom, no. That’s not—Jessica handled the paperwork. I didn’t know—”
“Don’t you dare.” My voice cracked. “Don’t you dare lie to me now.”
Jessica’s calm finally fractured. “We weren’t stealing anything. We were protecting our future. You’re almost seventy, Margaret. What happens when you can’t take care of this place? When you need us to manage everything? We were being proactive.”
“Proactive.” The word tasted like poison.
Helen’s voice cut through. “Margaret, do you want me to come over?”
“Yes.” I didn’t look away from Jessica. “And bring the police.”
David lunged forward. “Mom, please. We can fix this. We’ll move your stuff back. We’ll—”
“Where is it?” I interrupted. “Where are my things? My photographs? Thomas’s belongings?”
Jessica crossed her arms. “I told you. Storage.”
“Which storage?”
She didn’t answer.
“Which storage, Jessica?”
David’s voice was barely a whisper. “We sold some of it.”
The phone nearly slipped from my hand.
