Chapter 6 - THE GATHERING STORM
We barely slept that night. The revelation that my mother intended to not only steal my home but also take my son completely shattered any remaining illusion I had about her humanity.
The next morning, I called my boss and took a leave of absence. Then, I called a lawyer—a real one.
"If she filed a fraudulent deed transfer using a fake power of attorney and a fake notary stamp, she's looking at multiple felonies," the lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah, told me over the phone. "But we need to catch her in the act. When is the final walk-through?"
"Monday," I said. "Two days from now."
"Good. Don't let her know you know. Let her think she's winning."
That afternoon, Amy and I went back to the house. I had told my mother we spent the night at the hospital for observation. When we walked in, Teresa was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping tea. The house was spotless—she must have hired cleaners.
"Well, look who finally decided to come home," she said, not looking up from her magazine. "I hope you're ready to apologize, Amy. Leaving a mess like that during a family party is unforgivable."
Amy stood tall. She didn't cower. She didn't look at the floor. She looked straight at the woman who had tormented her.
"I'm going to take Frederick up for a nap," Amy said calmly. She didn't offer a single word of apology.
Teresa’s eyes narrowed. She wasn't used to defiance. "Excuse me?"
"You heard her," I said, stepping between them. "She's tired. And so am I. We need some rest."
Teresa scoffed, but she didn't push it. She looked confident. Too confident.
Later that evening, I snuck into the guest room while she was in the shower. I needed the fake notary stamp. If I had the physical stamp, her entire scheme would crumble.
I searched the antique desk, the dresser, and under the mattress. Nothing.
Then I noticed my father’s silver pocket watch box sitting on the nightstand. The box she had used to show me the fake promissory note.
I opened it. The yellow paper was gone. Underneath the velvet lining, hidden in a small compartment, was a shiny metal stamp. I pressed it onto a scrap of paper. Teresa Bradley - Certified Notary Public.
I slipped it into my pocket just as the shower water turned off.
I rushed back to our bedroom and locked the door. I showed the stamp to Amy. We had the weapon. We had the video. We had everything we needed.
But then my phone buzzed. It was a text from Aunt Betsy.
Connor, I'm sorry. I had to tell her.
May you like
A second later, the bedroom door handle rattled. Then, a heavy pounding began on the wood.
"Open the door, Connor," my mother’s voice rang out, cold and sharp. "I know you took it. And if you don't give it back right now, Paul is going to make the call."
