Chapter 3: What the Envelope Knew
I didn't move from the doorway.
Brandon stepped to the left, blocking my view of the counter.
It was a small movement, almost casual.
But he did it.
"You should go, Chloe."
"That envelope.
The one from Hargrove and Associates."
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
"That's none of your business."
"Hargrove handled my father's estate," I said.
"So yes, Brandon.
It is my business."
Brenda came out of the bedroom carrying a stack of folded towels.
She set them on the hallway shelf — my shelf, the one I had painted myself — and turned to face me like I was a delivery person who had rung the wrong bell.
"Brandon told you to leave."
"I'm not talking to you."
"You're standing in our home."
I looked at her.
"You don't own this home.
You own a house in Bethesda.
This is the apartment I paid for."
"The registry disagrees," she said, and smiled.
Brandon picked up the envelope from the counter and moved it to the kitchen drawer.
He closed it without looking at me.
That was the moment I understood.
He hadn't hidden it before I arrived because he hadn't expected me back so soon.
The envelope wasn't meant for me to see.
And now that I had seen it, he was deciding how much damage it could do.
"I want to know what that firm sent you," I said.
"Get a lawyer," he said.
"Ask them."
I left.
Not because I was giving up.
Because I needed to think without him watching my face.
I sat in my car for ten minutes.
Then I called my father.
"Dad, do you remember Hargrove and Associates?
The firm that handled Grandpa's estate?"
A pause.
"Why are you asking about them?"
"I just saw their name on an envelope in Brandon's kitchen.
Their name, Dad.
Not ours.
His."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Chloe." His voice changed.
"Your grandfather left something.
When he passed, there was a secondary clause in his will.
A property.
I didn't tell you because the firm said it was still being processed and I didn't want to get your hopes up."
I gripped the steering wheel.
"What kind of property?"
"A building," my father said quietly.
"Commercial.
On Pratt Street.
It's worth — Chloe, it's worth a great deal.
The firm was supposed to contact you directly once the title cleared."
The title.
Brandon had been practicing my signature for months.
"Dad," I said.
"He wasn't just after the apartment."
I drove straight to Hargrove and Associates.
The receptionist told me the attorney handling my grandfather's estate was named Grace Ellison.
She was in a meeting.
I sat in the waiting room for forty minutes.
When Grace came out and I told her my name, she stopped walking.
"Chloe Miller," she said carefully.
"We've been trying to reach you."
"What do you mean?
I never received anything."
She looked at her assistant.
Something passed between them.
"Ms.
Miller, we sent three letters to your home address.
We also sent a certified notice two weeks ago.
It was signed for."
"By whom?"
She pulled up the record on her tablet and turned it toward me.
The signature on the delivery confirmation.
It was mine.
It was not mine.
I knew the difference now.
"Ms.
Ellison," I said, and my voice was steadier than I expected.
"I need you to tell me exactly what was in those letters.
And I need you to tell me whether anyone else has been in contact with your firm regarding my grandfather's estate."
Grace set the tablet down on the reception desk.
"Ms.
Miller, I think you should come into my office."
She closed the door behind us.
She sat across from me.
She folded her hands.
"Three weeks ago," she said, "a man came in claiming to be acting on your behalf.
He had a notarized letter of authorization.
With your signature."
The room didn't move.
I didn't move.
"He requested a full summary of the estate assets," Grace continued.
"Including the Pratt Street property valuation.
We provided it because the authorization appeared legitimate."
"It wasn't legitimate," I said.
"I'm beginning to understand that."
I looked at her directly.
"How much is the property worth?"
Grace opened a folder.
She slid a single page across the desk.
I looked at the number.
May you like
Brandon hadn't been stealing my past.
He had been stealing my future.
