Chapter 3 - Eight Stitches and One Lie
At the emergency department, a doctor cleaned the cut, checked me for a concussion, and closed my forehead with eight stitches.
I was lucky, she said.
Lucky was a strange word for surviving dinner with people who claimed to love me.
My oldest friend, Nora Quinn, arrived carrying a sweater and a phone charger.
She had been my neighbor for twenty-four years and had never once asked me for a dollar.
“Tell me who I need to bite,” she said.
Despite the stitches, I laughed.
Then I cried, and she sat with me while I did.
I told her about the proposal, the plate, and Tyler's silence.
When I mentioned the paper under the sideboard, she stopped smiling.
“Eleanor, that wasn't just a tantrum.”
“No.”
“I think they were trying to steal my house.”
Attorney Leah Ortiz called before midnight.
Three weeks earlier, I had taken Marcus's emailed proposal to her office because its language frightened me.
I had not understood every clause, but I understood the word transfer.
Leah had understood the rest.
“Are you somewhere safe?” she asked.
“With Nora.”
“Good.
Don't sign anything, don't discuss the property with them, and don't give anybody your passwords.”
“What about Tyler?”
Leah hesitated.
“Especially Tyler until we know what he knew.”
That hurt enough to make me close my eyes.
Tyler had lived in my home from the age of three, after his mother's death and his father's disappearance from our lives.
I had raised him with the help of my husband, Harold.
When Harold died, Tyler had been the one person I assumed would never leave my side.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Tyler.
Marissa is sorry. Please don't press charges. You know how she gets under pressure.
I stared at those words.
Under pressure.
As if my forehead were an unfortunate business expense.
May you like
Then another message arrived, this one from an unknown number.
Check the county property records before morning. They're already using your name.
