I pick up my phone again. My hands are perfectly steady now. The rage has distilled into something potent and clear.
I scroll through my contacts until I find the name I need.
Grant Halloway.
He is not a family lawyer. He is a shark who specializes in high-stakes property litigation and corporate hostile takeovers. He costs six hundred dollars an hour, and he is worth every penny.
I press call.
It rings once. Twice.
A gravelly voice answers. It is holiday week, but men like Grant never really stop working.
“Grant, it’s Clare Lopez,” I say.
“Clare,” Grant says, his tone shifting to professional curiosity. “I thought you were off the grid enjoying the new fortress.”
“The fortress has been breached,” I say. I look at the monitor on my desk. I can see the gate swinging open. The two SUVs are rolling through. The invasion has officially begun. “My parents and my brother have just entered the grounds,” I tell him. “They have a forged lease with my signature on it. The local police declared it a civil matter and left. They’re bringing in industrial mining equipment.”
There is a silence on the other end of the line—a heavy, thoughtful silence. Then I hear the sound of a chair squeaking, as if Grant is sitting up straighter.
“A forged lease?” Grant asks. “And they’re moving in?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’re claiming tenancy.”
“Okay,” Grant says. “That’s bold. Stupid, but bold. Do you want me to file for an emergency eviction?”
“No,” I say. “An eviction takes too long. They know that. They want to drag this out for months.”
“Then what do you want?” Grant asks.
I watch on the screen as Graham steps out of his car in front of my house. He looks up at the windows, claiming his prize.
“I want to destroy them, Grant,” I say. “I want to use every zoning law, every preservation ordinance and every clause in the trust agreement to crush them. I want them to regret the day they learned to spell my name.”
I hear a low chuckle on the other end of the line.
“Music to my ears,” Grant says. “Send me everything you have.”
I hang up the phone.
Downstairs, I hear the heavy thud of a fist pounding on the front door.
“Clare!” Graham’s voice, muffled by the thick oak. “Open up! Stop being dramatic!”
I do not move.
I sit in the dark library, the glow of my laptop screen illuminating my face.
“Now,” I whisper to the empty room. “Now it’s their turn.”
The heavy oak door vibrates against my back. On the other side, Graham is pounding with the flat of his hand, a rhythmic, demanding thud that sounds less like a knock and more like ownership asserting itself.
I can hear the high-pitched whine of the drill starting up again. The locksmith is attacking the deadbolt. They are seconds away from breaching the sanctuary I have spent my life savings to secure.
I stand in the dim foyer, my phone pressed to my ear, my heart beating with a cold, hard precision.
“Grant,” I say. “They’re at the door. The locksmith is drilling.”
“Put me on speaker,” Grant Halloway says. His voice is gravel over velvet, the sound of a man who eats conflict for breakfast. “And open the door.”
“Open it?” I ask.
“Trust me,” Grant says. “Do you see the police officer?”
“He left,” I say. “He called it a civil matter.”
“He didn’t leave far,” Grant says. “I just called the dispatch supervisor and explained the situation. He should be rolling back up your driveway right now. Open the door, Clare. Let’s end this.”
I take a deep breath. I reach out and unlock the secondary internal latch. Then I turn the heavy brass knob.
The door swings open.
Graham stumbles forward, his fist midair, caught off balance by the sudden lack of resistance. Marilyn is standing behind him, shivering in her fur, her face a mask of tragic suffering. Derek is behind them, filming with his phone, a smirk plastered on his face.
The locksmith is on his knees, drill in hand, looking up with guilt written all over his face.
“Clare!” Graham shouts, regaining his composure. He straightens his coat. “Finally. You are making this incredibly difficult for everyone.”
I do not step back. I stand in the doorway, blocking the entrance with my body. I hold my phone up in front of me like a shield.
“Officer,” I call out, looking past them.
The patrol car has indeed returned. It is idling silently behind the two black SUVs, its lights flashing red and blue against the gray dusk. The young officer is walking toward us, looking annoyed and tired.
“I thought I told you folks to settle this inside,” the officer says, his hand resting on his belt.
“They are breaking in,” I say. “And my lawyer would like a word.”
I tap the speaker icon on my phone and hold it out.
“Who is this?” Graham demands, looking at the phone with disdain.
“This is Grant Halloway,” Grant’s voice booms from the tiny speaker. It is loud enough to cut through the wind. “I represent the Glenn Haven Preservation Trust.”
Graham laughs, a short, dismissive bark.
“We don’t care about your trust. We have a lease signed by the owner.”
“Officer,” Grant continues, ignoring my father completely. “Please ask Mr. Caldwell to show you the lease again. Specifically, look at the name of the landlord.”
The officer looks at Graham, who, looking irritated now, pulls the folded paper from his pocket.
“It’s signed by Clare Lopez,” Graham says, thrusting it toward the officer. “My daughter. The woman standing right there. She owns the house. She leased the basement to us.”
“Officer,” Grant says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous. “Clare Lopez does not own that house. The Glenn Haven Preservation Trust owns it. Miss Lopez is merely the court-appointed administrator and resident trustee. She has no legal authority to lease any portion of that property to a private party for commercial cryptocurrency mining. Even if that signature were real, which it is not, the contract is invalid from the start. You cannot lease what you do not own.”
I watch the realization wash over Graham’s face. It is slow, like a stain spreading on fabric.
He looks at the paper in his hand, then at me.
“But you bought it,” he stammers. “You said you bought a manor.”
“I bought a controlling interest in a trust,” I say, my voice steady.
“For privacy and for protection,” Grant continues, delivering the final blow. “Furthermore, Officer, since the lease is a forgery attempting to gain access to corporate property, this is no longer a domestic civil dispute. This is attempted corporate fraud and criminal trespass. The Glenn Haven Preservation Trust does not have a family relationship with Mr. Caldwell. We are requesting you remove these individuals from the premises immediately or we will be filing charges against your department for aiding and abetting a felony.”
The officer’s demeanor changes instantly. The “family dispute” gray area has vanished. Now he is dealing with a black-and-white property crime involving a corporate entity.
He steps forward, his hand moving away from his belt and gesturing toward the SUVs.
“Mr. Caldwell,” the officer says, his voice hard. “I need you to step away from the door.”
“Now wait a minute,” Graham sputters, his face turning a mottled red. “This is a technicality. She’s my daughter—”
“Sir,” the officer barks. “The deed says a trust owns this house. Your lease is with a person who doesn’t hold the title. That paper is worthless. You are trespassing on corporate land. Pack it up. Now.”
Marilyn lets out a wail, but it is cut short when the officer turns his gaze on her.
“Ma’am. Get in the car.”
