“Denise,” he said, voice softened into that patronizing tone attorneys sometimes use when they’re sure they’re speaking to someone without power, “I’ve heard the situation from your father. You’re single and hoarding such an enormous asset while denying access to family members in need could be interpreted as… contrary to the law.”
Some relatives shifted. My aunt’s lips pressed into a thin line. My uncle’s eyes narrowed.
Morris continued, reaching into his briefcase. “Let’s resolve this amicably. We’ll draft a contract recognizing certain rooms as Kristen’s residence and place of business. That would be best for everyone.”
He pulled out papers, crisp and formal, and held them out like a peace offering disguised as a demand.
I didn’t even glance at the documents.
Instead, I checked the time on my phone.
Morris frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I appreciate your professional advice,” I said evenly, “but before we draft any contracts, it seems there’s a physical problem that needs to be addressed first.”
“A physical problem?” Morris repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.
Then the siren started.