Chapter 5
Mom nearly dropped the phone.
“He can’t sell the house without me.”
Anthony answered,
“That’s what I thought.”
Mom paced across Aunt Renee’s living room.
“My name is on the deed.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Marcus sent me a copy.”
She stopped.
“What?”
Anthony explained that Dad had spent weeks trying to convince him to provide money.
During one of those conversations, he sent financial documents to prove how desperate he was.
A copy of the property deed was included.
Only it wasn’t the real deed.
Mom’s signature had been added to paperwork authorizing Dad to handle the sale.
“Forgeries,” Mom whispered.
“Probably.”
“Send everything.”
“I already forwarded it to Renee.”
Aunt Renee checked her email.
There it was.
Dozens of attachments.
I watched Mom scroll through them.
Her breathing grew faster.
Then she found something that made her sit down.
The sale price.
Our house was worth far more.
Dad planned to sell it quickly for cash.
Closing was scheduled for Friday.
Three days away.
“He was going to sell our home and disappear,” Mom whispered.
Anthony said nothing.
Neither did I.
Suddenly Dad’s strange comment made sense.
He’d told me I would understand after I learned everything.
Maybe he had already decided there would be nothing left to come home to.
Mom called Denise immediately.
The attorney sounded furious.
“Do not contact Marcus,” she instructed. “Send me every document.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m contacting the title company and the buyer’s attorney.”
“Can they stop it?”
“If these signatures are fraudulent, absolutely.”
Mom covered her eyes.
I sat beside her.
She looked destroyed.
Not because of the house.
Because seventeen years of marriage had just become evidence.
Every shared account.
Every signature.
Every promise.
Everything had become something she needed an attorney to inspect.
Half an hour later, someone knocked.
All four of us froze.
Anthony had said he was nearby.
Still, nobody moved.
The knock came again.
Aunt Renee checked the peephole.
“It’s him.”
Mom stood but didn’t approach.
I did.
When I opened the door, I saw a man in his early forties.
Tall.
Dark jacket.
Tired eyes.
He looked at me and stopped breathing.
I hated that I immediately started searching his face for pieces of mine.
The shape of his nose.
His eyebrows.
His chin.
I didn’t know whether I found similarities because they existed or because I wanted answers.
“Jordan.”
He said my name like it hurt.
“Anthony.”
He nodded.
For a moment, it seemed like he wanted to hug me.
He didn’t.
Good.
I wasn’t ready.
Mom stepped into view.
Anthony looked at her.
“Claire.”
“Anthony.”
Seventeen years disappeared from their faces for one second.
Then reality returned.
He came inside.
Aunt Renee hugged him.
Apparently they had stayed loosely connected through old friends.
I didn’t like learning that.
Every discovery seemed to come with another secret.
Anthony handed Mom a folder.
“These are printed copies.”
“Thank you.”
He looked at me again.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what part?”
Mom whispered, “Jordan.”
“No, it’s fine,” Anthony said. “He deserves to ask.”
I crossed my arms.
“Why did you stay away?”
His face tightened.
“Fear.”
“At least that’s honest.”
“Yes.”
“Were you really threatened?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad have a gun?”
Mom looked shocked.
Anthony nodded.
My stomach dropped.
“He came to my apartment when you were three months old,” Anthony said. “He put a handgun on the table.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“He told me if I challenged him for custody or contacted you again, somebody would get hurt.”
“Why didn’t you call police?”
“I should have.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I was twenty-five. Broke. Scared. And Marcus knew it.”
I stared at him.
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I moved.”
“Started another family?”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Married?”
“Once.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
Something about that answer hit me.
Not because I suddenly felt sorry for him.
But because I realized I wasn’t the only person whose life had been shaped by Dad’s threats.
“I wrote letters,” Anthony said.
Mom looked up.
“What letters?”
“To Jordan.”
“I never received letters.”
“I know.”
He reached into his bag.
Inside was a stack of envelopes.
Some looked old.
Some recent.
Each had my name.
Different ages were written on the corners.
Jordan — age 5.
Jordan — age 10.
Jordan — age 13.
Jordan — age 16.
I stared at them.
“What are those?”
“Things I wanted to say.”
“Why didn’t you send them?”
“I didn’t know where you lived for years. And when I found out…”
He looked ashamed.
“I was still afraid.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everybody keeps saying they hid things to protect me.”
“I wasn’t protecting you.”
Anthony looked directly at me.
“I was protecting myself.”
That answer earned more respect from me than any excuse could have.
He handed me the letters.
I didn’t open them.
Not yet.
That evening, Denise called.
The house sale had been suspended.
Mom almost collapsed from relief.
But the good news lasted thirty seconds.
“There’s another issue,” Denise said.
“What?”
“The mortgage.”
Mom frowned.
“What about it?”
“According to the county records and financial documents, Marcus refinanced the property eleven months ago.”
“He couldn’t.”
“He appears to have forged your signature there too.”
Mom sat slowly.
“How much?”
“One hundred twenty thousand dollars.”
Nobody spoke.
Our house wasn’t just almost sold.
Dad had drained much of the equity first.
“What did he do with the money?” I asked.
Denise sighed.
“We don’t know.”
Anthony looked troubled.
Then he said,
“I might.”
We all turned toward him.
He pulled out his phone.
“Marcus sent me a photo two months ago.”
He found it.
The picture showed Dad standing beside a man I had never seen before.
They were outside some kind of warehouse.
On the table between them were stacks of cash.
Mom looked sick.
“Who is that?”
Anthony zoomed in.
“I don’t know.”
Aunt Renee did.
Her face changed.
“I do.”
We all looked at her.
“That’s Calvin Price.”
“Who?”
“He used to work with Marcus.”
Mom frowned.
“At the trucking company?”
“Yes.”
Renee swallowed.
“He was arrested years ago for running illegal gambling rooms.”
My stomach tightened.
Anthony lowered his phone.
“That explains the debts.”
Mom looked toward the window.
“Marcus isn’t just gambling online.”
Apparently not.
That night, police informed Mom that they had been unable to locate Dad.
His truck was found abandoned outside a grocery store.
His phone was turned off.
By morning, investigators looking into the financial fraud had contacted Denise.
I sat at Renee’s kitchen table while adults made phone calls around me.
For once, nobody was trying to hide anything.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Dad.
I’m sorry.
I stared at it.
Another came.
I never wanted you involved.
Then a third.
Don’t trust Anthony.
I showed Mom.
She immediately forwarded screenshots to Denise and police.
Then another message arrived.
He abandoned you once. He’ll do it again.
I typed a response.
Mom caught my wrist.
“Don’t.”
I looked at her.
“He doesn’t get to keep controlling the conversation.”
“Exactly.”
She took the phone gently.
“So don’t give him one.”
I deleted my reply.
Ten minutes later, one final message arrived.
Tell your mother the people I owe won’t stop with me.
Mom read it.
Her face drained of color.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody knew.
Then Anthony’s phone rang.
He looked at the number.
His face changed.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Marcus.”
He answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, he listened.
Then his expression hardened.
“No.”
Pause.
“No, I’m not giving you money.”
Another pause.
Anthony looked at Mom.
Then at me.
“What do you mean you already made a deal?”
My stomach tightened.
He put the call on speaker.
Dad’s voice filled the room.
“The money isn’t for me anymore.”
Mom whispered,
“Marcus, where are you?”
Dad ignored her.
He spoke directly to Anthony.
“You wanted to be Jordan’s father?”
Anthony looked at me.
Dad continued.
“Then prove it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“To keep my mistakes from becoming his problem.”
My heart pounded.
Anthony’s voice turned cold.
“If someone threatened Jordan, I’m calling police.”
“You do that and you’ll make it worse.”
Mom stepped forward.
“Marcus, stop this.”
He went quiet.
Then his voice became strangely soft.
“Claire.”
“You need to turn yourself in.”
“You think jail fixes this?”
“It stops you from hurting us.”
Silence.
That sentence landed harder than anything.
Dad finally said,
“You really think I’m the only person you need to be afraid of?”
The call disconnected.
Mom stared at the phone.
Anthony immediately called police.
I walked toward the window.
A dark sedan was parked across the street.
I had noticed it twenty minutes earlier.
Now the driver’s door opened.
A man stepped out.
I had never seen him before.
But Anthony had.
His face went pale.
May you like
“That’s the man from Marcus’s photo.”
Calvin Price had found us.
