Chapter 2
I stared at my father.
"What building?"
Dad looked toward Denise.
She was standing perfectly still.
The anger had disappeared from her face.
Now she looked frightened.
"The Hawthorne building," Dad answered.
My heart skipped.
Hawthorne Plaza was a three-story commercial property on the east side of Atlanta.
It contained six small businesses and several offices.
Denise had managed it for years.
She often spoke about the tenants as though they were her personal responsibility.
Sometimes she'd complain about late rent.
Other times she'd boast about negotiating leases.
I'd always assumed the building belonged to her.
"That's Mom's property," Tasha said.
Dad shook his head.
"No."
Denise snapped:
"Arthur!"
He ignored her.
"The building belonged to my father. After he died, ownership passed through the family estate."
I frowned.
"Grandpa owned Hawthorne Plaza?"
Dad nodded.
"Yes."
I felt dizzy.
Grandpa Walter had died when I was eleven.
I remembered him as a quiet man who smelled like peppermint and always slipped five-dollar bills into my birthday cards.
I had no idea he'd owned commercial property.
Dad continued.
"When my mother died, her interest passed according to her estate plan."
He looked at me.
"That included a substantial interest intended for you."
I stared at him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His face softened.
"Because you were young, and I wanted you to finish school without people treating you differently."
I looked toward Denise.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Does she know?"
Dad nodded.
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
Denise had known.
For years, she'd been talking about that building as though it belonged entirely to her.
I took a step backward.
"Have you been collecting my rent?"
Denise's head snapped up.
"Don't make accusations."
Dad spoke firmly.
"Maya asked a reasonable question."
Denise folded her arms.
"I managed that building. I handled the tenants, the repairs, the accounts."
Dad nodded.
"And you were compensated for managing it."
Tasha looked confused.
"Mom, what is he talking about?"
Denise ignored her.
Dad opened another folder.
He removed several financial statements.
I stared at the columns.
Rent deposits.
Maintenance expenses.
Management fees.
Distributions.
The numbers made my head spin.
Dad pointed toward one section.
"These are the rental proceeds attributable to the family interest."
Then he pointed to another.
"These are the management payments Denise received."
I looked at the total.
My breath caught.
Denise had been paid thousands of dollars every year.
And she was standing there demanding another house.
"How much did Grandma leave me?" I whispered.
Dad hesitated.
"We need to distinguish between property value and money available to distribute."
I nodded.
"Okay."
He took my hand.
"But it's more than the little house."
My eyes filled.
I remembered working part-time through college.
I remembered worrying about student loans.
I remembered Denise telling me that adults needed to earn everything themselves.
And all that time, she'd known there were assets intended for me.
I looked at her.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She laughed bitterly.
"Because you would have become spoiled."
I stared at her.
"Excuse me?"
"Young people who inherit money stop appreciating hard work."
Dad stepped forward.
"That's enough."
Denise looked at him.
"You said you wanted Maya to stay grounded."
"I did. That didn't give you permission to conceal information from her."
My throat tightened.
I looked at Dad.
"You let her manage it?"
He nodded.
"She had property management experience. I trusted her to handle day-to-day operations."
I swallowed.
"Did you check the accounts?"
His expression changed.
"Of course."
Denise looked away.
Something about that movement bothered me.
I looked at the statements again.
There were expenses I didn't understand.
Repeated payments to a company called Sterling Property Services.
Large maintenance charges.
Consulting fees.
I pointed toward one entry.
"What's this?"
Dad leaned closer.
"Which one?"
"Twenty-two thousand dollars for exterior repairs."
Denise immediately spoke.
"That was necessary maintenance."
I looked at her.
"When?"
She frowned.
"Two years ago."
I remembered visiting Hawthorne Plaza around that time.
I'd gone there to buy a birthday cake from a bakery on the ground floor.
The building looked exactly the same.
I turned toward Dad.
"Didn't the plaza get renovated last year?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
"Then why are there major exterior repairs listed the year before?"
Denise rolled her eyes.
"Because buildings require ongoing maintenance, Maya."
I looked at her.
"Can we see the invoices?"
She went silent.
Dad turned toward her.
"Denise."
She folded her arms.
"I don't have them here."
"Where are they?"
"At my office."
Dad nodded.
"Then bring them tomorrow."
Her expression hardened.
"You're going to audit me because your daughter asked a question?"
Dad looked at me.
Then back at Denise.
"I'm going to review the property accounts because transparency matters."
Tasha suddenly spoke.
"This is ridiculous."
I turned toward her.
She looked upset.
"Mom has spent years working on that building."
Dad nodded.
"Yes. And she was paid for that work."
Tasha stared at him.
"So what?"
"So work doesn't automatically create ownership."
Tasha's face reddened.
I understood why she was upset.
For years, she'd heard Denise describe Hawthorne Plaza as part of their future.
Maybe she'd believed she would inherit it.
Maybe she'd already imagined living on its income.
But that didn't make the property hers.
I looked at Tasha.
"I'm not trying to take anything from you."
She laughed bitterly.
"Easy for you to say."
My chest tightened.
"I didn't know about any of this until today."
Tasha looked away.
Dad closed the folder.
"We're not resolving this by shouting."
Denise grabbed her handbag.
"I'm finished with this conversation."
She walked toward the door.
Dad stopped her.
"Denise."
She turned.
"I want the Hawthorne records by tomorrow evening."
Her eyes narrowed.
"And if I refuse?"
Dad's expression became firm.
"Then I'll have the property attorney request them directly."
Denise stared at him.
Then walked out.
Tasha followed.
The front door slammed.
I stood beside the island, feeling overwhelmed.
Dad touched my shoulder.
"Maya?"
I looked at him.
"Why does she hate the idea of me having something?"
His face broke.
"Sweetheart, I don't think this is about you."
I wiped my eyes.
"It feels like it."
He hugged me.
For a moment, I was nine years old again, crying after Mom's funeral.
Dad held me the same way.
Quietly.
Protectively.
Then he whispered:
"I should have told you sooner."
I pulled back.
"Yes."
He nodded.
"I know."
I looked at the documents.
Then asked:
"Can I see everything Grandma left?"
Dad smiled sadly.
"Of course."
We spent the next hour reviewing family records.
There were three properties.
Grandma's house.
An undeveloped parcel outside the city.
And the interest in Hawthorne Plaza.
But when Dad opened the final envelope, his expression changed.
He stared at one document.
Then frowned.
"What?"
I leaned closer.
He turned the page toward me.
It was a recent filing.
A property transfer request.
And beside my name was a signature.
May you like
It looked like mine.
But I'd never signed it.
