Chapter 5
I sat beside Maya at the kitchen table.
She looked exhausted.
Her turquoise phone rested between us.
I wanted to ask a hundred questions.
But I could see how frightened she was.
So I started with one.
“Sweetheart, are you safe right now?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did anyone hurt you when Denise took you to the house?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
I exhaled.
“Okay.”
Then I took her hand.
“Tell me what you remember.”
Maya stared at the table.
“Denise said we were going to look at furniture.”
I frowned.
“Furniture?”
“She told me the rental house needed repairs before new tenants moved in.”
I knew the property.
Nicole's grandmother had owned it for decades.
After Nicole died, it became part of Maya's trust.
The house wasn't luxurious.
It was a modest three-bedroom home near downtown Charlotte.
But it mattered to Nicole.
She'd spent summers there as a girl.
She'd always wanted Maya to know it belonged to her family.
I looked at my daughter.
“What happened when you arrived?”
“A man was waiting.”
“Did he introduce himself?”
She nodded.
“Mr. Bell.”
My stomach tightened.
Patricia Bell.
The name connected to the proposed property transaction.
I leaned forward.
“Was his first name Daniel?”
Maya looked surprised.
“Yes.”
I felt cold.
“Then what?”
“He showed Denise some papers.”
Maya's fingers trembled.
“She said I only needed to sign because it would help with repairs.”
I swallowed.
“Did you know what the papers were?”
“No.”
She looked ashamed.
“I tried to read them.”
I squeezed her hand.
“What happened?”
“Denise got mad.”
Maya's eyes filled.
“She said I was being difficult.”
My chest tightened.
“She told the man I was eighteen and already knew everything.”
I shook my head.
My daughter was seventeen.
Her birthday wasn't for another four months.
Anyone looking at her identification would know that.
“Did he ask for your ID?”
Maya nodded.
“He asked, but Denise said she'd forgotten it at home.”
I closed my eyes.
“And he let you sign anyway?”
She nodded.
“I think so.”
I took a slow breath.
“You were pressured into signing something you didn't understand.”
She looked up.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
My voice was firm.
“You are not in trouble.”
She began crying.
I pulled her close.
For a while, I simply held her.
Then she whispered, “Denise said you'd be angry if I refused.”
My throat tightened.
“I wish you'd known you could always call me.”
Maya shook her head.
“She said you already knew.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
The same lie.
Over and over.
Your father agreed.
Your father knows.
Your father will be angry.
Denise had used my authority to frighten my daughter into silence.
And I'd been too busy working to notice.
I kissed Maya's forehead.
“I'm sorry.”
She looked up.
“For what?”
“For not making it easier to talk to me.”
Her face crumpled.
I continued.
“I should've asked more questions.”
She leaned against me.
“Dad, I didn't want to cause problems.”
My eyes filled.
“Sweetheart, asking for help isn't causing problems.”
That afternoon, Camille contacted the trust administrator and the attorneys handling Nicole's estate.
We shared Maya's account of the property meeting.
We preserved the messages.
And we asked for copies of any documents bearing her signature.
Within two days, Camille called with an update.
The attempted transaction included a document claiming Maya had consented to a future property transfer.
Her age was incorrectly listed.
And the paperwork had been submitted through a real-estate office connected to Denise.
I felt sick.
“Does that mean the house is gone?”
“No,” Camille answered.
“The property is still held by the trust.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank God.”
“But the attempted transaction is serious.”
I nodded.
“What's next?”
“We'll continue working with the relevant institutions and investigators. The documents may support allegations of fraud.”
I looked out the window.
Maya was sitting on the patio with Jordan.
They were talking quietly.
I felt a wave of sadness.
Neither teenager had asked for any of this.
They should've been arguing over music.
Making college plans.
Celebrating graduation.
Instead, they were caught inside an adult struggle over money and resentment.
“Camille,” I said, “I want both kids protected.”
She paused.
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Jordan too?”
I looked toward him.
“He didn't create this.”
Camille's voice softened.
“Understood.”
That evening, I asked Jordan if he wanted to talk.
We sat in the garage.
The silver sedan stood nearby.
The white bow had been removed and placed on a shelf.
Jordan stared at the car.
Then whispered, “It's beautiful.”
I smiled faintly.
“Yeah.”
He nodded.
“Maya deserves it.”
I looked at him.
“You deserve good things too, Jordan.”
His eyes filled.
He looked away.
“Mom says you only care about Maya.”
I took a breath.
“Do you believe that?”
He hesitated.
“I used to.”
The answer hurt.
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because she kept saying it.”
Jordan rubbed his hands together.
“She said you were saving all your money for Maya.”
I looked toward the car.
“Jordan, I've helped pay for your school expenses, sports programs, and driving lessons.”
“I know.”
“And I planned to help you with college.”
He nodded.
“Mom said you only did those things because you had to.”
I shook my head.
“I chose to.”
Jordan stared at me.
I continued.
“When I married your mother, I wanted to build a family with both of you.”
His lips trembled.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
For a moment, I thought he might cry.
Then he whispered, “I don't want Maya's car.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“And I don't want her mom's money.”
My chest tightened.
He continued.
“I just want Mom to stop making everything a fight.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
“So do I.”
He began crying.
I sat beside him until he calmed down.
Then he asked something I hadn't expected.
“Marcus, if you and Mom separate, do I have to stop seeing you?”
My heart broke.
I looked at him.
“No.”
His eyes widened.
“Really?”
“We'll have to work out the right arrangements. But I care about you.”
He wiped his face.
“I thought you'd hate me.”
I shook my head.
“Son, you're not responsible for what your mother did.”
He leaned forward.
For the first time in months, he hugged me.
I held him tightly.
Then I heard footsteps.
Maya stood at the garage entrance.
Her eyes were wet.
Jordan immediately pulled away.
“Maya, I'm sorry.”
She looked at him.
“For what?”
“For not telling you sooner.”
She wiped her cheeks.
Jordan continued.
“I knew Mom was being unfair.”
Maya stared at him.
Then whispered, “You could've helped me.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then Maya stepped closer.
“I was scared too.”
Jordan began crying again.
She hugged him.
I turned away for a moment.
Because watching those two teenagers apologize for surviving the same household nearly broke me.
Later that night, Denise called.
I didn't answer.
She sent a message.
Marcus, we need to talk before you destroy this family.
I looked at it.
Then another message arrived.
If you expose what happened with the house, Jordan will lose his future.
I stared at the screen.
She was still using her son as leverage.
I forwarded the messages to Camille.
Then I walked upstairs.
Maya and Jordan were playing a video game in the living room.
They were laughing.
For the first time in weeks, the house felt lighter.
But just before midnight, Camille called.
Her voice was tense.
“Marcus, we found something else in the property records.”
My heart tightened.
“What?”
“A transfer involving Denise Williams Holdings.”
I stood.
“Did she take money?”
Camille paused.
“There's evidence that a separate payment was made to her company.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
I stared at the wall.
“From where?”
May you like
Camille's answer made my blood run cold.
“An account connected to Nicole's former design business.”
