2. A printed summary of the bank transfers—highlighted, dated, with totals circled in red.
3. A letter from my attorney, stating that Ryan’s access to my accounts had been revoked and that any attempt to enter the property without my consent would be treated as trespass.
Ryan’s eyes moved across the pages, and for a brief moment he looked like a man reading his own obituary.
“This is insane,” he said, his voice cracking. “You can’t do this.”
“I already did,” I replied.
Frank finally spoke, his voice slow and heavy. “Ryan said this house was yours. He said you paid for it.”
Ryan turned sharply toward his father. “Dad, I—”
Linda snatched the papers from his hands and skimmed them faster than I expected. Her expression hardened into something controlled and calculating. “So you’re threatening my son with the police?”
“I’m protecting myself,” I corrected. “Your son stole from me and tried to bully me out of my own home.”
Heather scoffed. “Stole? Are you serious? We’re family.”
I couldn’t help it—I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Family doesn’t drain someone’s account and then show up with suitcases.”