“We already have the paperwork.”
He waved it at me.
“Samuel just needs to sign.”
My mother shook her head slightly.
No.
Dad looked at me.
And suddenly I understood.
Gregory and Fiona hadn’t merely overstayed.
They had been trying to pressure my parents into signing documents.
Possibly for days.
That explained Mom’s missing phone.
The silence.
The fear.
The box.
I extended my hand.
“Give me the folder.”
Gregory pulled it toward his chest.
“You don’t need to see it.”
“I think I do.”
“This is between us and your parents.”
“They’re adults.”
“They can sign whatever they want.”
“You’re not their guardian.”
That was when I smiled.
Nothing was funny.
Dad was shaking.
Mom was crying.
But Gregory still believed he was negotiating with the frightened son of two elderly homeowners.
He had no idea that I legally owned every inch of the house.
“Interesting.”
I looked at him.
“Tell me again whose house this is.”
Gregory’s jaw tightened.
“Ours.”
“Now.”
I took out my phone.
Made one short call.
“Come inside.”
Then I walked to the antique writing desk.
Unlocked the bottom drawer.
Removed the sealed property folder.
I broke the seal.
Pulled out the deed.
Placed it on the table beside Dad’s box.
Fiona leaned over.
Her eyes moved down the page.
Property description.
Parcel number.
Recording date.
Then owner:
**Lucas Samuel Sinclair.**
Her face turned white.
Gregory went silent.
“That’s impossible.”
“Irene said it was a gift.”
“It was.”
I pointed toward my parents.
“I gave them the right to live here for the rest of their lives.”
“No rent.”
“No conditions.”
“No one can remove them.”
Then I tapped the deed.
“But I kept ownership.”
“For exactly this reason.”
Gregory slowly looked down at the documents he had brought.
Whatever scheme he believed he had constructed was collapsing.
Then the front door opened.
Naomi Reyes walked inside carrying a leather briefcase.
She looked once around the room.
Dad.
Mom.
The box.
The broken picture.
The wineglass.
Then she noticed the folder in Gregory’s hands.
“Nobody touch that folder.”
Gregory went pale.
Naomi identified herself as my attorney.
Then advised him to place the documents on the table.
He eventually did.
She examined the first paper.
A quitclaim deed.
It attempted to transfer my parents’ interest in the property to Fiona and Gregory for ten dollars.
Signature spaces remained blank.
“This document accomplishes nothing,” Naomi said.
“They don’t own the property.”
“But it tells me what you believed you were doing.”
The second document was much worse.
A durable power of attorney.
It gave Fiona control over Mom and Dad’s finances.
Investments.
Medical decisions.
Living arrangements.
Naomi became very serious.
Then came the third document.
An application to Pine Ridge Senior Living.
Already completed.
Under reason for placement:
**Progressive cognitive and physical decline. Family unable to provide care.**
Under payment:
**Resident savings — approximately $380,000. Managed by Power of Attorney.**
Attached was a handwritten note:
**Mobile notary booked — Friday 10 a.m. Get Sam to sign tonight. Irene will follow.**
Naomi looked at Fiona.
