The lawyer came in the morning. Mom went to meet him.
"Dirk Dickerson—are the documents all ready?"
Dirk didn't answer.
Two people trailed behind him.
"Mrs. Fox," he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "you're being accused of extortion."
The smile on Mom's face froze.
"What did you just say?"
Dirk pulled a file from his briefcase.
"The evidence you asked me to gather—" He flipped to a page. "—was fabricated by you."
Dad descended the stairs and clapped the lawyer on the shoulder.
"Appreciate the hard work, Dirk."
Mom stared at the lawyer.
"My grandfather helped you," I shouted.
Dirk looked down and adjusted his cuffs.
"Old Mr. Abbott was kind to me," he said. "Which is exactly why I'm telling you—don't fight this."
Dad produced a check.
Dirk took it without hesitation.
Mom laughed suddenly.
"How much?" she asked Dad. "I can match it."
Dad shook his head.
"No. You can't."
He stepped closer.
"Every account under your name was frozen yesterday."
Mom gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles went white—translucent.
"The house?"
"Mortgaged," Dad said, his tone light, almost casual. "The company needed the liquidity."
He glanced at the clock on the wall.
"You have half a day to move out."