She lowered herself into the chair across from me, her purse still clutched in her lap.
For the first time in eight years, I wasn’t the one on the defensive.
“What’s all this?”
I placed the deed in front of her.
“The house was transferred into my name eight months before the accident. Sole ownership. Not shared, not split, not contested.”
Her face changed.
The soft, concerned expression she always wore melted into something harder.
“That’s not possible.”
Her face changed.
“It is. Mom and Dad signed it. It’s notarized. There’s a trust attached, too. Everything they had, they left to me.”
“To you,” she repeated. “Not to Lucas?”
“To me. To manage. To protect.”
She let out a short, ugly laugh. “So you took everything. You cut Lucas out.”
“No,” I said. “They did that on purpose. Because they knew you’d try to use him.”
“So you took everything. You cut Lucas out.”
Her jaw tightened. “How dare you.”
I slid the second document across the table.
“They also documented the money you took. Every withdrawal. Every transfer. Mom kept records.”
The color drained from her face.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
Then she recovered, and her voice sharpened into something cold.
“How dare you.”
“You think a letter and some papers mean anything? I have rights. I have history in this family.”
“You have neither,” I said quietly. “Not anymore.”
“Lucas,” she said, turning toward him with a pleading softness. “Sweetheart, you don’t understand what’s happening. Your sibling is stealing your inheritance. She’s keeping the house for herself and cutting you out. I’m trying to help you.”
Lucas didn’t move.
“You think a letter and some papers mean anything?”
“I’ve read the letter,” he said. “I’ve known for months.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
“You knew?”
