“Lauren, don’t react.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What is it?”
“A quitclaim deed.”
I stared at the screen.
According to the document, I had transferred the Tahoe property to my father.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
“Then whose signature is on it?”
Michael paused.
“What appears to be yours.”
On the security feed, Dad smiled.
And suddenly I understood.
Forgery.
For years, Dad had called me cold whenever I refused to send money.
Ungrateful whenever I asked where the money was going.
Disloyal whenever I requested receipts.
He had always treated my boundaries as insults.
Apparently, at some point, he had decided my signature was just another boundary he could ignore.
Michael told me to keep Dad talking while he searched the county records.
Dad stood outside the villa looking calmer now.
He believed the document had restored his authority.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
“Not yet.”
His face hardened.
“You don’t have a choice.”
I almost laughed.
That sentence had followed me my entire adult life.
When Olivia needed tuition.
When Susan wanted a kitchen renovation.
When Olivia crashed her first car.
When Dad needed $18,000 to “fix something with the bank.”
Even after my husband James died and I could barely function, Dad still called because the family supposedly needed me.
You don’t have a choice.
Family comes first.
Stop being selfish.
Do the right thing.
For years, I had mistaken obedience for loyalty.
Not anymore.
Eventually, David noticed the emergency release beside the side entrance.
