Derek’s expression changed. The confidence drained out of it, leaving something hard and exposed underneath. Vanessa placed the plate on the table and rose beside him, smoothing the front of her dress.
“This is a family matter,” she said.
The locksmith looked at the twelve guests, then at me. “It became my matter when I was asked to alter a residence based on a document I haven’t verified.”
I reached for the clipboard.
Derek moved quickly.
He crossed the room and grabbed it before I could take it from the locksmith’s hand. The suddenness of the motion made several guests gasp.
“Give me that.”
The locksmith pulled the clipboard back. “Don’t touch my paperwork.”
Derek stopped with his hand suspended in the air.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock above the fireplace. It had belonged to my husband, Thomas, and it had counted the hours of our marriage, Derek’s childhood, and every quiet morning after Thomas died.
Now it seemed to be counting down to something.
I looked at my son.
“What did you do?”
His mouth tightened. “I handled a problem you refused to handle.”
“What problem?”
“This house.”
“My house is not a problem.”
“It is when you can’t maintain it, when the taxes are late, when the roof needs repairs, and when you keep pretending you can live here forever.”
“The taxes are paid.”
“By me.”
“Because you offered to help.”
“I offered because you were drowning.”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in me. “You paid two months of property taxes after your father died. I reimbursed you before the third month.”
Vanessa folded her arms. “This is exactly what we were talking about. You twist everything into an accusation.”
“I have not accused anyone yet.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Your face does it for you.”
The locksmith glanced at the guests. A few looked away. Others stared at Derek with the uncomfortable fascination of people who had come expecting a dinner and found themselves seated inside a crime.
“May I see a government-issued identification and proof of ownership?” he asked me.
My hand went automatically toward the hallway cabinet. The deed was in the lower drawer, in a blue folder beside the insurance papers.
Derek stepped in front of me.
“Don’t.”
That single word settled over the room.
Not a warning. Not a request.
A command.
I stopped.
“What is in the folder?” I asked.
His eyes flickered toward the cabinet.
Vanessa’s face went pale.
That was when I understood that the locksmith had not discovered the truth. He had only carried it through my door.
I walked to the cabinet.
Derek reached for my arm, but I stepped back before he could touch me.
“Move.”
“Mom, listen to me.”
“No. You have had months to speak, and every sentence has been designed to make me doubt myself.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was taking my plate away from me.”
The room went still again.
I opened the drawer and removed the blue folder. My hand shook as I lifted the papers. The deed was there, bearing my name and Thomas’s, with the date of our purchase stamped across the bottom.
I handed it to the locksmith.
He read the first page, then the second. His eyes moved quickly. He turned to the final page and studied the notary seal.
“This establishes Elaine Hale as the surviving owner,” he said.
Derek exhaled through his nose. “That’s an old deed.”
“It is the recorded deed.”
“I have a newer one.”
My fingers went cold.
Vanessa closed her eyes.
The locksmith looked at Derek. “A newer deed transferring ownership would need to be recorded.”
“It is.”
“Then you should have no problem showing it.”
Derek didn’t answer.
