I held out my hand.
“Give me the folder.”
Gregory pulled it against his chest.
“You don’t need to see it.”
That was when I smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Gregory still believed he was negotiating with the frightened son of two frightened retirees.
He had no idea I was the only person in that room who legally owned a single inch of the property.
“Interesting,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me one more time whose house this is?”
Gregory’s jaw tightened.
“Ours now.”
I took out my phone and made one call.
Then I walked to the small writing desk beside the windows, unlocked the bottom drawer with the key on my ring, and removed the sealed property file I had placed there on anniversary weekend.
Fiona stared at the county recording stamp on the first page.
Gregory stopped talking.
I laid the deed on the table between us.
Then the front door opened behind him.
My attorney stepped inside, took one look at the document Gregory had been trying to make my father sign, and said,
“Nobody touch that folder.”
Gregory went pale.
My attorney, Claire, slipped on a pair of reading glasses and opened Gregory’s folder without moving it from the table.
Fiona immediately reached for it.
“That’s private.”
Claire blocked her hand.
“Not anymore.”
The first page wasn’t a deed.
It was an occupancy agreement naming Gregory and Fiona as permanent residents and making my elderly parents responsible for utilities, repairs, and household expenses.
The second page was worse: a handwritten statement claiming Dad had invited them to take control of the property.
Dad whispered, “I never agreed to that.”
Gregory’s face hardened.
“You said we could stay.”
“For a few days,” Mom answered.
Claire looked at me, then at the county deed I had placed beside Gregory’s papers.
“Lucas, there’s something else you need to see.”
She turned to the final page.
Fiona lunged for it.
Claire covered it with her palm.
