“What is this?”
Ms. Farrow pulled up the county record.
“This property was purchased seven years ago.”
“By who?”
She pointed at the document.
“Your mother.”
I stared.
“Why is my name here?”
“Because you’re listed as the beneficiary.”
I couldn’t understand.
“What property is it?”
She gave me the address.
My father’s old workshop.
The place he had owned before he died.
I hadn’t seen it in years.
I thought it had been sold.
But it hadn’t.
My father had left it in a trust.
And the beneficiary was Emily.
I stared at the paperwork.
“How much is it worth?”
Ms. Farrow looked at me.
“Approximately $620,000.”
I couldn’t speak.
My mother had known.
Shane had known.
And apparently Misty knew too.
But nobody had told me.
I went home.
Mom was waiting.
“I found Dad’s workshop.”
She closed her eyes.
“I knew you would.”
“Why did you hide it?”
“Because Shane wanted it.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course he did.”
“He wanted to sell it.”
“For his debts?”
She nodded.
“But your father put restrictions on the trust.”
“What kind?”
“He couldn’t sell it without your approval.”
I stared at her.
“So that’s why he wanted this house.”
Mom nodded.
“He needed your signature.”
I suddenly understood everything.
The Sunday meeting.
The repayment agreement.
The pressure to make me leave.
The quitclaim application.
It wasn’t about giving Shane a place to live.
It was about making me believe I had no rights.
They wanted me desperate.
They wanted me frightened.
They wanted me to sign something without reading it.
Just like I had nine years earlier.
But this time, I wasn’t crying.
I wasn’t confused.
And I wasn’t signing anything.
That evening, Shane came to my door.
He looked exhausted.
“Michelle.”
I didn’t invite him inside.
“What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
“You’ve been trying to take my house.”
“I know.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I didn’t personally.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
He lowered his head.
“I was trying to protect my kids.”
“So was I.”
He looked at me.
“Can you forgive me?”
I almost laughed.
“You haven’t even told me the truth.”
He looked away.
“What truth?”
“Who forged my signature?”
Silence.
Then Shane whispered:
“Misty.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where is she?”
“She left.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“With what?”
He looked at me.
“The documents.”
“What documents?”
“The original papers from Dad’s trust.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did she take?”
Shane swallowed.
“Everything.”
And then he said something I never expected.
“She took Emily.”
I froze.
“What?”
“She picked Emily up from school.”
My heart stopped.
I grabbed my phone.
Three missed calls.
One unknown number.
Then a text appeared.
If you want your daughter back, bring the trust documents.
I stared at the screen.
For nine years, I had thought my family was trying to take my house.
I was wrong.
They were trying to take something much more valuable.
My daughter.
