Chapter 4 - THE YELLOW PAPER
"Give me that," I said, reaching for the yellow paper.
Teresa snatched it back, holding it out of my reach. "Not so fast. You don't get to disrespect me in my own home and then demand things."
"It's not your home," I said, keeping my voice dangerously low. "You're a guest who overstayed her welcome by six months. Now, explain the money and explain my father."
She carefully unfolded the document. It was a promissory note, dated nearly twenty years ago. It bore my father’s signature—the real one, sloppy and rushed, unlike the perfect forgery on the occupancy agreement. It stated that my father had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from my mother's brother, Uncle Richard, using our family business as collateral.
"Richard called the debt due last week," Teresa said smoothly. "Since your father is gone, the burden falls to the estate. Which means it falls to you. I took the thirty-two thousand to pay him a partial settlement so he wouldn't put a lien on your house. I saved you, Connor."
It sounded perfectly logical. It sounded exactly like the kind of financial mess my father would have hidden.
But I noticed something. The date on the promissory note was August 14th.
My father had lost his right hand in an industrial accident on August 2nd of that year. He couldn't write his own name for six months, let alone sign a legal document with his dominant hand.
I didn't tell her that.
"I want Amy's wallet," I said instead, pretending to be defeated.
Teresa smiled, a sickeningly triumphant look on her face. She walked over to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out Amy’s worn leather wallet. She tossed it onto the bed. "Take it. And tell that girl she needs to be back here by 6:00 AM. The kitchen isn't going to clean itself."
I grabbed the wallet and turned to leave. As I walked out, I glanced at the wastebasket by the door. Resting right on top of a pile of crumpled tissues was a torn piece of cardboard.
It was a shipping label. Addressed to my mother. From a company called "Advanced Notary Supplies."
She hadn't just forged a signature. She had bought her own notary stamp.
I walked out to my car and dialed my Aunt Betsy's number. She had been the loudest one laughing at Amy earlier. It was time to find out exactly how deep this family betrayal went.
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"Betsy," I said when she answered, her voice groggy with sleep. "I need you to tell me exactly what my mother is planning to do with my house. Or I'm calling the police about the notary fraud."
There was a long silence on the line. Then, Aunt Betsy whispered, "She’s not trying to keep the house, Connor. She already sold it."
