Mitchell slipped the phone into his pocket. “Three years ago,” he said, “you lost your pension chasing a private investment you never disclosed to Suzanne. The account was underwater. You were less than two weeks from foreclosure. My firm purchased the property through a discretionary trust. I have funded the taxes, insurance, utilities, and maintenance ever since. You remained in residence under an occupancy agreement because Wendy asked me not to humiliate you.”
Wendy stared through the windshield, blood rushing loud in her ears. She knew Mitchell had helped. She knew there had been “financial restructuring,” some murky problem he and Philip had spoken about behind closed doors. She had not known the full architecture of it. She had not known he had built a parachute under the entire house and kept it invisible because she asked him to preserve her parents’ dignity.
Philip took one step forward, then stopped. “That’s a lie.”
“County records say otherwise,” Mitchell replied. “So do the trust filings. Marcus can send copies.”
Suzanne’s face changed slowly, like panic was working its way up through layers of disbelief. “We never agreed to—”