It recorded the entryway, the living room, my father’s demand, my refusal, the slap, and his promise to take the house without my cooperation.
Ten minutes after they drove away, I saved the footage in three places.
Then I photographed every page in the folder.
The company named on the deed had been created eleven days earlier. Its registered manager was my father. Attached to the back was a financing summary showing a large payment due in ninety days.
Beneath it, in my mother’s handwriting, were six words:
“Claire’s property covers the remaining balance.”
I called a real-estate attorney named Nora Patel.
She listened without interrupting. Then she asked one question.
“Did they ever have access to your signature or identification documents?”
I remembered the paperwork from my divorce. My father had helped me carry boxes from my old apartment. One folder containing copies of my driver’s license, tax returns, and closing documents had disappeared for two weeks before he claimed to find it in his trunk.
