Chapter 4
I recognized the house immediately.
The faded blue shutters.
The cracked concrete walkway.
The enormous oak tree my mother had planted when Denise and I were children.
It was the place where I had learned to ride a bicycle, where my mother had held my hand during thunderstorms, and where my sister and I had once promised to take care of each other forever.
I had believed the house was gone.
After Mom died, Denise told me that the property had been sold to cover outstanding debts.
She said there had been nothing left.
I had accepted her explanation because I was grieving and exhausted.
Now someone was telling me that she had lied.
I printed the photograph and placed it inside Patricia's folder.
Then I called Denise again.
She didn't answer.
I left a message.
"Call me. We need to discuss Mother's house."
She returned my call twenty minutes later.
"What did you find?"
I was stunned.
"You knew someone had contacted me?"
She went quiet.
"Renee, listen to me. You need to stop digging into things you don't understand."
"Then explain them."
"I can't."
"You can. You just don't want to."
She sighed.
"Mr. Collins is trying to help me."
"Help you do what?"
"Get what I deserve."
The words struck me harder than I expected.
"What does that have to do with my apartment?"
She didn't answer.
I pressed the phone against my ear.
"Denise, did you sell Mother's house?"
"No."
"Did you transfer it to someone?"
Another silence.
"Denise!"
"I didn't steal anything!"
"I didn't say you did."
"You always think the worst of me."
I almost laughed.
My daughter had spent two months frightened inside our own home, and my sister was still determined to make herself the victim.
"Then tell me the truth."
Her voice broke.
"I was trying to fix everything."
"What does that mean?"
But she hung up.
The next morning, Patricia helped me locate the county property records office.
I spent hours reviewing documents.
The house had not been sold in the way Denise had described.
Instead, the ownership records showed a transfer connected to a private investment company.
The transfer had taken place several months after our mother's death.
The name of the company meant nothing to me.
But one name on the filing did.
Arthur Bell.
The same name that had appeared on the mysterious document Mr. Collins had brought into my apartment.
I sat back in my chair.
Arthur Bell was the person who supposedly wanted our apartment.
He was also connected to the company that had acquired my mother's house.
The situation was no longer about a landlord acting improperly.
Someone had linked two separate parts of my life.
My mother's estate.
And my daughter's safety.
I asked Patricia to help me obtain copies of the recorded documents.
Then I called the county office handling property fraud complaints.
I explained what I had discovered and provided the available records.
The employee told me that the documents would need to be reviewed before anyone could determine whether wrongdoing had occurred.
I understood.
I wasn't looking for instant answers anymore.
I was looking for facts.
That afternoon, Maya sat beside me while I reviewed the photographs.
"Mom, I remember that man."
I turned toward her.
"Arthur?"
She nodded slowly.
"He was with Denise when they came here."
"Are you sure?"
"He didn't talk much. He stood near the kitchen and looked at everything. He asked how long we'd lived here."
My stomach tightened.
"What else?"
"He asked whether you had a safe."
I felt a chill move down my back.
"What did you tell him?"
"That we didn't."
She hesitated.
"Then he asked if you kept your mother's papers in the bedroom."
I stood.
"Did you tell him anything about the papers?"
"No. I told him I didn't know."
I sat beside her and took her hand.
"You did the right thing."
She looked down.
"Mom, I think they were looking for something."
"What?"
"I don't know."
She began twisting the sleeve of her hoodie.
"But when Denise was here, she opened the storage closet and looked inside the boxes. She seemed upset when she didn't find what she wanted."
I remembered the old documents I had brought home after the funeral.
My mother had kept everything.
Tax returns.
Insurance policies.
Letters from banks.
Receipts from decades earlier.
I had stored the boxes in a small closet because I couldn't bear to sort through them.
One box had disappeared after I moved into the apartment.
I had assumed it was lost during the move.
Now I wondered whether it had been taken.
I called Denise once more.
This time, she answered.
"Where are Mother's papers?"
Her breathing changed.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The box I brought home after the funeral. The one with her legal documents."
"You lost it."
"Did you take it?"
"No!"
"Then why were you searching my storage closet?"
She said nothing.
I lowered my voice.
"Denise, whatever you've done, you can tell me the truth. But you need to tell me before this gets worse."
Her answer was almost a whisper.
"I was trying to protect you."
"From whom?"
She began crying.
For a moment, I thought she might finally tell me everything.
Then I heard a man's voice in the background.
"Hang up."
Denise stopped crying.
"Renee, I have to go."
"Who is there?"
"Don't call me again."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Maya was watching me from across the kitchen table.
"Was that him?"
"I don't know."
But I was beginning to suspect that Denise had become trapped in something she had once believed she could control.
That evening, I received another email.
This one contained a scanned letter written in my mother's handwriting.
I recognized the slant of every word.
The letter was dated six months before her death.
It began with my name.
Renee, if you are reading this, something has happened that I feared for a long time.
I stopped breathing.
The next sentence was partially obscured by a dark mark.
But the final line remained clear.
Whatever happens, do not let anyone convince you that the house belongs to them.
I looked toward Maya.
Then back at the letter.
Someone had found my mother's words.
May you like
Someone wanted me to read them.
And someone was desperate enough to frighten my daughter in order to keep the truth buried.
