Chapter 8: The House on My Father's Land
Brandon came to Carol's house on a Saturday morning.
He didn't call first.
I saw his car from the upstairs window.
He was standing on the front step, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at the door.
Not angry.
Composed.
The way he looked when he had already decided what he was going to say.
Carol looked at me.
"Do you want me to tell him to leave?"
"No," I said.
"I'll go down."
I opened the front door but didn't step outside.
He looked at me for a moment without speaking.
"Can we talk privately?" he said.
"Carol's house.
Her rules.
We talk here or not at all."
He glanced past me into the hallway, then nodded.
We stood in Carol's small front room.
He didn't sit.
Neither did I.
"The detective called me," he said.
"I know Brenda talked to you."
"She did."
"Whatever she told you, she misunderstood the situation.
I never asked her to impersonate anyone.
I asked her to help with some paperwork and she—"
"Brandon." I said it quietly.
"Philip Sears confirmed you made the appointment.
By name.
Three days in advance."
His jaw tightened.
"That can be explained."
"Diane from the front desk gave a written statement describing Brenda.
The detective has it.
Robert has it.
The county has it." I paused.
"There is no version of this that gets explained away."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Something moved behind his eyes — not guilt, not yet, but the first real understanding that the ground had shifted under him.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I want my land back in my name, undisturbed.
I want a divorce.
And I want you to stay away from Hannah until she decides for herself whether she wants a relationship with you."
"You can't keep my daughter from me."
"I'm not keeping her from you.
I'm letting her choose.
She's sixteen.
She was in that room when you raised your hand.
She heard your mother." I held his gaze.
"Ask her yourself what she wants."
He looked away first.
His hands came out of his pockets and he pressed one against the back of the armchair beside him.
"My mother had nothing to do with the document," he said.
"Your mother told you to hjt me twice in front of our daughter.
I'll let the courts decide what she had to do with the document."
"Rebecca—"
"We're done here, Brandon."
He stood there another moment.
Then he said, very quietly, in a voice I almost didn't recognize: "I didn't think you'd actually leave."
I looked at him.
Eighteen years.
The man who had stood beside me when my father handed us that piece of land.
The man who had held Hannah the day she was born.
"I know," I said.
"That was your mistake."
He left without another word.
Carol appeared in the doorway as his car pulled away.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," I said.
And meant it.
Three days later, Detective Marsh called.
Brandon had been formally interviewed.
Brenda had given her full statement.
Philip Sears had surrendered his records.
The Franklin County Prosecutor's office was reviewing the case for charges of forgery and fraud.
The land transfer was officially voided.
The county recorder's office sent me written confirmation.
I read it twice.
Then I called my father.
"It's done, Dad.
The land is back."
He was quiet for a moment.
When he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges.
May you like
"Your mother and I always said that piece of land would protect you." A pause.
"I'm glad it did."
