Chapter 4: The Man Who Thought He'd Already Won
I let it ring once more, then answered.
"Lena Marsh."
A pause.
Then a voice — smooth, unhurried, the kind of voice that had never been told no and found the experience mildly amusing.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said.
"You've purchased a property that was already spoken for."
"I purchased a property through a registered foreclosure auction," I said.
"The sale is recorded and complete."
"Sales can be contested."
"On what grounds?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Why don't we meet and discuss it like reasonable people?
I'm sure we can find a number that makes this easy for everyone."
Chloe was watching me from across the kitchen.
Mom hadn't moved.
"I'm not interested in a number," I said.
"Everyone is interested in a number, Ms.
Marsh.
They just haven't heard the right one yet." A short, polite laugh.
"I'll have my assistant send you a meeting request.
Say, tomorrow morning?"
"Send it," I said.
"I'll review it with my attorney."
The smoothness in his voice cooled by one degree.
"You have an attorney."
"I do."
I ended the call.
Chloe stared at me.
"Do you actually have an attorney?"
"I have a very good one." I set my phone face-down on the table.
"Her name is Patricia Owens.
She handled the purchase."
Mom looked up for the first time since the call started.
"You planned this."
"I planned to buy a house."
"You planned all of it." Her voice wasn't angry.
It was something harder to read — part recognition, part something that might have been shame.
"You knew about the foreclosure.
You knew about the listing.
You came back with a lawyer and a cashier's check and you didn't tell anyone."
"You blocked my number," I said.
"Five years ago.
I didn't have a lot of options for advance notice."
Chloe sat down across from me.
The hostility in her posture had shifted into something more complicated.
"What do you want, Lena?" she asked.
"Why are you really here?"
"I told you.
I bought the house."
"But why?
You could have bought a house anywhere.
Why this one?"
I looked around the kitchen.
The yellow curtains.
The wooden clock.
The chair where Dad used to sit.
"Because someone needed to," I said.
Nobody spoke.
Then Mom said, very quietly, "He's not going to let this go."
"I know."
"You don't know him.
He has lawyers.
He has money.
He has people on the city planning board." She pressed her hands flat on the table.
"He told me he's done this before.
That when he wants a property, he gets it.
He said the only question was whether the people inside made it easy or hard."
"Then we'll make it hard," I said.
Chloe looked at me like she was seeing someone she didn't fully recognize.
"We?"
I didn't answer that directly.
"I need to see every piece of paper he's given you," I said to Mom.
"Every letter, every text message, every document he asked you to sign.
Everything."
Mom hesitated.
"Mom.
Everything."
She stood slowly and left the kitchen.
Chloe and I sat across from each other in the silence she left behind.
"I didn't know," Chloe said finally.
"About the payments.
The taxes.
The insurance.
I didn't know any of it was you."
"I know you didn't."
"I should have—"
"Chloe." I looked at her.
"Not today.
We can do that later.
Right now I need those documents."
She nodded.
Mom returned carrying a shoebox.
She set it on the table between us and lifted the lid.
Inside were eleven letters, a signed letter of intent, and a photograph.
May you like
The photograph showed Richard Hale standing in front of this house.
It was dated three weeks before Dad d*ed.
