I clicked the pen open. Brielle’s smile widened. Tyler leaned back, already mentally spending the equity. But instead of signing, I slid the deed across the table toward a fourth chair nobody had noticed was occupied. “Margaret,” I said softly, “I think you’ll want to see this.”
Margaret Chen, my estate attorney, stepped out from the booth behind us where she’d been quietly finishing her risotto. She picked up the deed, glanced at it, and laughed once — sharp, professional. “Diane, this isn’t even a real transfer document. This is a printable template from a free legal website. Honey, did your fiancé download this?”
Tyler’s face drained. Brielle whipped around. “Tyler — you said —”
“I had a feeling,” I said, finally taking a sip of my cold coffee. “So I made some calls last week. Tyler, your name came up in an interesting place. Margaret?”
Margaret slid a folder onto the table. “Mr. Hollis, you’re currently named in a civil suit in Phoenix. You convinced a sixty-two-year-old widow named Eleanor to sign over her condo last spring. She’s suing. Her attorney would *love* to speak with anyone he tried this on next.”
Brielle’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Mom — I didn’t — I didn’t know —”
“You knew enough to call me a thief in my own daughter’s mouth,” I said. “You knew enough to threaten to disown the woman who held your hand through chemo scares and college finals. You stopped knowing me the second he told you I was an ATM.”
I stood up, smoothed my scrubs, and laid a twenty on the table for my coffee. “The house stays mine. The wedding fund I’d been quietly saving — also mine. And Brielle, when you figure out who you are without him whispering in your ear, you have my number. Until then?” I looked at Tyler. “Enjoy your deposition.”
I walked out into the parking lot, and for the first time in months, my hands weren’t shaking.
