Chapter 7 - THE CONFRONTATION
My mother lived in a modest townhouse on the east side of Nashville. I had paid her down payment six years ago.
I parked two blocks away and walked through the humid night air, keeping to the shadows. It was 2:00 AM. The street was dead quiet.
I approached the back of the townhouse. The security light was broken—I knew, because I was the one she had asked to fix it a month ago, but I hadn't found the time.
I slipped my father’s old brass key into the back door lock. I had always kept a spare key on my ring for emergencies.
The lock clicked. I pushed the door open silently and stepped into the kitchen.
The house was dark, but a faint light spilled from the living room down the hall. I crept forward, the taser gripped tightly in my right hand.
As I neared the living room, I heard voices.
“You should have seen her face,” my mother’s voice sneered. She wasn't sleeping. She was sitting on the sofa, holding a glass of wine.
“She looked like a drowned rat washing those dishes. I finally showed that little gold-digger her place.”
“Aunt Teresa, focus,” Mason’s voice replied sharply. He was pacing the floor in front of the coffee table. On the table sat a thick leather briefcase. “We have to be at the clerk’s office at 8:00 AM sharp. Once the seal is verified, the house goes into the trust, and my bosses consider your gambling debt paid.”
“And Connor?” my mother asked, taking a sip of wine. “Will he figure it out?”
“By the time Connor realizes the house is gone, he’ll be dealing with the credit card fraud investigations,” Mason laughed. “He’ll be ruined. He’ll come crawling back to you for help, just like you wanted.”
I felt a sickening wave of disgust. My own mother didn't just want my money. She wanted to destroy my independence so I would be forced to take care of her forever.
I stepped into the doorway, stepping into the light.
“I’m not coming back to you,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room.
My mother dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the hardwood floor, red wine pooling like blood.
“Connor!” she gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
Mason spun around, his eyes widening. He instinctively reached toward his jacket pocket.
“Don't move, Mason,” I ordered, raising the taser and pointing the red laser sight directly at his chest. “I know what you have in the briefcase. I want the deed and my grandfather’s seal.”
Mason slowly raised his hands, a cruel smirk crossing his face.
“You’re out of your depth, cousin,” Mason said smoothly. “You shoot me with that toy, you go to jail for assault. And tomorrow, my bosses still take your house.”
“Connor, put that down!” my mother yelled, standing up. “How dare you break into my house! After everything I’ve done for you!”
“Everything you’ve done for me?” I shouted, the years of repressed anger finally exploding. “You stole my identity! You ran up eighty thousand dollars in debt! You humiliated my wife and tried to steal the roof over my sick child’s head! You’re not a mother. You’re a parasite.”
Teresa’s face twisted with pure venom. “I gave you life! You owe me everything! That house belongs to me because you belong to me!”
She lunged at me, her hands curled into claws, aiming for my face.
I didn't use the taser on her. I simply stepped aside.
Teresa tripped over the edge of the rug and crashed hard onto the floor, crying out in pain as she landed in the spilled wine and broken glass.
Mason took advantage of the distraction. He grabbed the heavy leather briefcase from the coffee table and bolted for the front door.
I recovered instantly and sprinted after him.
Mason threw the front door open, running out onto the front lawn. But the grass was wet with morning dew. His leather dress shoes slipped.
He stumbled, falling hard onto the grass, the briefcase flying from his hands.
I was on him in a second. I pressed my knee into his back and drove the taser into his shoulder.
I pulled the trigger.
Mason convulsed, a ragged scream tearing from his throat as the electricity locked his muscles. He went limp on the wet grass, groaning in agony.
I stood up, breathing heavily, and walked over to the leather briefcase.
I popped the latches and opened it.
Inside was the forged quitclaim deed, heavily stamped with my grandfather’s antique iron notary seal. The physical seal itself was resting in the corner of the case.
I grabbed the deed and tore it into a dozen pieces, letting the wind scatter the forged documents across the dark street.
I picked up the heavy iron seal and shoved it into my jacket pocket.
“It’s over, Mason,” I said, looking down at my cousin.
But suddenly, the screech of tires tore through the quiet neighborhood.
A black SUV with tinted windows swerved onto the lawn, its headlights blinding me. Two massive men in dark jackets stepped out of the vehicle. They weren't police officers.
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They were the loan sharks. Mason’s bosses.
And they were holding guns.
