Add malicious destruction of property and endangerment to the list. Derek pulled the mains on his way out. Temperature is dropping. I am staying.
I hit send.
Then I open a blank document. I stare at the blinking cursor.
I begin to type.
Not a legal brief. Not a diary entry.
I begin to type a timeline.
December 23rd, 16:00 – Trespass initiated.
December 23rd, 16:45 – Forgery presented to law enforcement.
December 23rd, 17:10 – Utility sabotage confirmed.
I look at the fire. The flames are reflected in the dark window glass.
“Merry Christmas, Clare,” I say to the empty room.
I crack my knuckles. I have plenty of battery life, and I have a lot of work to do.
The temperature in the library drops to forty-eight degrees by the time the sun begins to bleed a pale, watery light through the heavy velvet curtains.
I have not slept.
I have spent the night feeding the fire with the methodical precision of a machine, burning through the stack of oak logs I had intended to last a week.
I am wrapped in two blankets, my breath pluming in the air like dragon smoke. But my mind is sharp. It is the kind of clarity that comes from adrenaline and cold, a hyper-awareness of every creak in the old house and every vibration of the phone on the desk.
At 8:15 in the morning, the phone finally rings.
It is not a local number. It is a 1-800 number.
The caller ID reads REGIONAL POWER & ELECTRIC.
I pick it up on the first ring.
“This is Clare Lopez,” I say.
“Good morning, Miss Lopez,” a chipper, automated-sounding voice replies. “This is Sarah from customer service. We are calling to verify the transfer-of-service request for 440 Blackwood Lane. We just need a final voice authorization to finalize the switch to the new account holder.”
I sit up straighter, the blanket falling from my shoulders.
“I did not request a transfer,” I say. “I am the account holder. The account stays in my name.”
There is a pause on the other end, the sound of typing.
“Oh. I see. Well, we have a request here submitted online at 4:30 this morning. It is requesting the service be moved to a Mr. Derek Caldwell. The application has all the requisite verification data.”
My blood runs cold, colder than the room.
“Verification data?” I ask. “What data?”
“Well,” the representative says, hesitant now, “he provided the Social Security number associated with the property file, the mother’s maiden name and the previous two addresses on file for the primary resident. It all matched our records for you. That is why the system flagged it for a quick approval.”
I close my eyes.
Of course he had it.
Or rather, she had it.
Marilyn kept a fireproof box in her closet. It contained the birth certificates, the Social Security cards, the vaccination records and the old report cards of both her children.
I had asked for my documents years ago when I moved out, and she had claimed she couldn’t find them, that they were lost in a move.
I had been forced to order duplicates from the state, but they weren’t lost. She had kept them.
She had kept my identity in a box, ready to be handed over to her golden boy the moment he needed a boost.
She had given him my Social Security number so he could steal my electricity.
“Cancel the request, Sarah,” I say. My voice is deadly calm. “That is a fraudulent application. Derek Caldwell does not reside here. He has no legal claim to this property. If you switch that service, I will sue your company for facilitating identity theft.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’m flagging it now,” the representative says. Her cheerful demeanor is gone. “We will lock the account. But if he has your full information—”
“I know,” I say. “I’ll handle it.”
I hang up.
I do not scream. I do not throw the phone.
I open my laptop.
The battlefield has shifted. Yesterday, it was a physical invasion at the gate. Today, it is a paper war.
They are trying to erase me from my own life, bit by bit.
I go to the website for Equifax first, then Experian, then TransUnion.
I initiate a total credit freeze on all three bureaus. It costs me nothing but ten minutes of typing, but it slams the door on any loans, credit cards or utility accounts Derek might try to open in my name.
Then I go to the federal government’s identity theft portal. I file a report. I list my brother as the perpetrator. I list my mother as the accomplice who provided the sensitive data. I detail the attempt to transfer the utilities.
When I hit submit, the site generates a recovery plan and, more importantly, an official FTC case number.
I write that number down on a sticky note and stick it to my laptop screen. That number is a shield.
The next time the police try to tell me this is a civil matter, I will give them a federal case number for felony identity fraud.
But the assault is not just financial. It is reputational.
My phone pings.
Then it pings again.
Then it starts vibrating continuously.
I pick it up.
I have six missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize. I have twelve text messages from relatives I haven’t spoken to in a decade.
“Clare, how could you?” one reads.
“Your mother is distraught. Call her,” reads another.
I open the Facebook app. I haven’t posted in years, but I still have the account to monitor public sentiment for work.
There it is.
It is shared by my Aunt Linda, my cousin Sarah and three of Marilyn’s bridge club friends.
Marilyn has posted a photo.
It is a picture of me from five years ago, looking tired and pale after a bout of the flu. In the photo, I look unhinged, disheveled.
The caption is a masterpiece of weaponized victimhood.
“Please pray for our family this Christmas,” Marilyn wrote. “We drove all the way to Glenn Haven to surprise our daughter Clare with gifts and love. We found her in a dark, empty mansion, completely out of touch with reality. She refused to let us in. She refused to let us help her. She even called the police on her own father and brother who were just trying to fix her heater. We stood in the snow for hours begging her to let us help, but she has shut us out. We are heartbroken. Mental illness is a silent thief. Please, if anyone knows how to reach her, tell her we love her and we just want her to be safe.”
It has one hundred forty likes. The comments are a river of toxic sympathy.
“So ungrateful,” wrote a woman named Beatrice. “After all you have done for her.”
“Kids these days have no respect,” wrote a man I don’t know. “Leaving her parents in the snow. Shameful. Stay strong, Marilyn. You are a saint for trying.”
I feel a surge of bile in my throat.
It is a perfect narrative.
She has taken my boundary, my refusal to be abused, and twisted it into a symptom of insanity.
She is using the stigma of mental health to discredit me, to make sure that if I speak up, no one will believe the crazy daughter in the big empty house.
I hover my finger over the reply button.
I want to type the truth. I want to post the video of the locksmith. I want to post the forged lease. I want to scream that I am the one with the job, the house and the sanity, and they are the parasites.
But I stop.
In my line of work, we have a saying: never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty, and the pig likes it.
If I argue, I look defensive. If I fight back in the comments, I look unstable.
I take a screenshot of the post. I take screenshots of every comment that mentions my address or makes a threat. I take a screenshot of the timestamp.
I open my evidence folder. I create a new subfolder: DEFAMATION – SOCIAL MEDIA. I drop the files in.
This is not just gossip. This is a coordinated campaign to damage my reputation and character. In a court of law, this is evidence of malicious intent.
Marilyn thinks she is winning the court of public opinion. I am letting her build the gallows for her own credibility.
Then a text comes in from a blocked number.
