Premises: basement level and auxiliary power grid of 440 Blackwood Lane.
Rent: one dollar per month.
Term: ninety-nine years.
And there at the bottom is a signature.
It is my signature. It is the loop of the C. The sharp strike of the L. The way the E trails off. It is a perfect replication of the signature I used on my college loans, the one Graham had co-signed years ago.
I stare at it, my breath catching in my throat.
“I never signed that.”
Graham shrugs, folding the paper back up and sliding it into his pocket.
“It’s right here, Clare. Signed and dated last week. Maybe you forgot. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“This is insanity,” I say, my voice rising. “That is a forgery. I will call the police.”
“Go ahead,” Graham says, his voice dropping to a low, menacing register. “Call them. Show them your deed. Show them this lease. It’s a civil matter, Clare. Do you know how long it takes to evict a tenant with a signed lease in this state? Especially family members during the holidays? Months, maybe a year. By the time a judge looks at this, Derek will have mined enough crypto to buy this town or he’ll have burned the house down. Either way, we’re moving in.”
He turns his back on me and gestures to the white van. The man in the blue coveralls, the locksmith, steps out. He looks hesitant, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He is holding a heavy cordless drill and a case of tension wrenches.
“Mr. Caldwell,” the locksmith asks, looking at the gate and then at me. “The lady says she didn’t sign anything.”
Graham walks over to the locksmith and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. His voice changes instantly. It becomes warm, paternal, and deeply sad.
“I am so sorry you have to see this, son,” Graham says, shaking his head. “My daughter, she’s having an episode. She’s struggled with mental health issues for years. She goes off her medication, she disappears, she buys these strange places and locks herself in. We’re just trying to get her home.
“We have a lease. We have the medical power of attorney pending. We just need to get inside before she hurts herself.”
The locksmith looks at me.
I stand there, stiff with rage, my hands clenched into fists. To a stranger, I probably do look rigid. I probably look manic.
Marilyn chimes in, wiping a fresh tear from her cheek.
“Please,” she says to the locksmith. “She’s all alone in there. She thinks we’re the enemy. It’s the paranoia talking. Please just open the gate so we can take care of our little girl.”
The locksmith looks at Marilyn’s tears, then at Graham’s expensive coat and calm demeanor, and then at me, the woman standing alone in the cold refusing to open the gate for her crying mother on Christmas.
He makes his choice.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the locksmith says to me, his voice apologetic but firm. “I gotta listen to the legal guardians here. If you’re sick, you need help.”
He walks toward the control box of the gate, raising his drill.
Derek has already started moving. While we’ve been arguing, he hasn’t been idle. He’s been moving.
He drags three more of the server racks out of the SUV and lines them up against the brick pillar of the gate. He has also done something far more insidious. He is on his phone, speaking loudly, his voice carrying over the wind.
“Yes, this is Derek Caldwell,” he is saying. “I’m the new tenant at 440 Blackwood Lane. I need to transfer the service into my name effective immediately. Yes, the basement unit. I have the lease right here.”
He is establishing a paper trail. He is calling the electric company.
I realize then what is happening.
They are not just breaking in. They are layering reality with documentation. A lease. A police report that lists it as a civil dispute. A utility account in Derek’s name.
Every minute I stand here arguing is a minute they use to pour concrete around their lie.
If I scream, I’m crazy. If I physically block them, I’m assaulting a tenant. If I open the gate, I’m surrendering.
I feel a cold clarity wash over me. It is the same feeling I get at Hion when I realize a project is irretrievably broken and needs to be burned to the ground to save the company.
I stop gripping the bars. I let my hands fall to my sides.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
I do not call the police again.
I open the camera app. I switch to video mode.
I point the lens at the locksmith.
“State your name and the name of your company,” I say.
My voice is flat, devoid of emotion.
The locksmith looks up, startled.
“Uh… Miller. Precision Lock and Key.”
I pan the camera to the license plate of his van. I record it clearly. I pan to the license plates of the SUVs. I record them.
Then I turn the camera on Graham.
“Graham Caldwell,” I narrate for the recording, “attempting unauthorized entry into 440 Blackwood Lane using a forged instrument. Date is December 23rd. Time is 4:42 p.m.”
Graham frowns.
“Stop that, Clare. You’re being childish.”
I don’t stop. I zoom in on the document in his hand. I capture the fake signature.
Then I turn the camera to Derek, who is still on the phone with the utility company.
“Derek Caldwell,” I say, “attempting to fraudulently transfer utility services for a property he does not own and does not reside in.”
Derek flips a middle finger at the camera. I capture that, too.
I am building a file.
In my world, the person with the best documentation wins.
They are playing a game of emotional manipulation and physical intimidation. I am about to play a game of liability.
“Open the gate, Clare,” Graham says, losing his patience. “The officer said we can come in. The locksmith is going to drill it anyway. You’re just costing yourself money.”
I lower the phone but keep it recording. I look Graham in the eye.
“You’re right,” I say. “The officer said it’s a civil matter. That means he won’t arrest you for entering, but it also means he won’t arrest me for what I do next.”
I turn my back on them.
“Where are you going?” Marilyn shrieks.
I don’t answer. I walk back up the driveway, the snow crunching under my boots.
Behind me, I hear the drill start up again. The high-pitched whine is the sound of my privacy dying.
I reach the heavy oak doors of the manor. I step inside and lock them. Then I lock the inner vestibule door. Then I go to the keypad on the wall and arm the internal motion sensors.
I walk into the library. It is dark, illuminated only by the gray light filtering through the tall windows.
I sit down at the heavy mahogany desk I bought at an auction three days ago. I open my laptop.
I create a new folder on the desktop. I name it INCIDENT DEC 23. I upload the video I just took. I upload the photos from earlier.
They are going to get through the gate. It will take the locksmith maybe ten minutes. Then they will drive up to the house. They will try the front door. They will find it locked. They will probably have the locksmith drill that too. They will get inside. They will haul their servers into the basement. They will unpack their bags in the guest rooms. They will open my wine and sit on my furniture and congratulate themselves on “handling the Clare situation.”
They think they have won because they have forced their way in. They think possession is nine-tenths of the law.
But they have forgotten what I do for a living.
I do not fight in the street. I fight in the fine print.
