Chapter 4 - My Name on the Purchase Agreement
“Give me your phone.”
Grandpa held out his hand.
Ava pulled hers against her chest.
“No.”
“Then read the message aloud.”
“You already saw it.”
“Read it.”
Her jaw tightened.
Mom stepped forward.
“Dad, that's her private phone.”
Grandpa looked at her.
“You've become very interested in privacy for people who went through Amelia's paperwork.”
Mom flinched.
I didn't.
Not anymore.
I was still focused on the message.
Ownership documents.
Call me before Amelia finds out.
There are phrases that turn an ordinary family argument into something else.
That was one of them.
“Ava.”
I looked directly at her.
“What documents does Nathan have?”
“None.”
“Then why did he text that?”
“I don't know.”
“You've met him.”
“Yes.”
“You went to a dealership twice.”
“Yes.”
“You had my spare key.”
She said nothing.
“You expected Mom to transfer my SUV to you.”
Still nothing.
“And someone has ownership documents.”
Ava stared at me.
Then she looked toward Grandpa.
“I wasn't going to steal her car.”
Grandpa's face hardened.
“Then stop using that word before anyone else does.”
Mom sat heavily.
“This is getting completely out of control.”
I looked at her.
“No, Mom. This is the first time it's been under anyone's control.”
She looked hurt.
I didn't rescue her.
Grandpa retrieved his reading glasses.
“Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Westlake.”
Ava shook her head.
“I'm not going.”
“Fine.”
He looked at me.
“You and I will go.”
Mom jumped in.
“I'll come.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't trust you to explain what happened accurately.”
That landed harder than anything else he had said.
Mom's face changed.
“Dad.”
“I asked why Amelia arrived in an Uber. You told me her sister needed the SUV more.”
“That was true.”
“No. That was your opinion.”
He pointed toward me.
“The fact was that Amelia had been deprived of a vehicle titled to her.”
Mom looked down.
Grandpa continued.
“You confused your judgment with her ownership.”
Nobody answered.
He gathered his phone and cane.
“Amelia, you're staying here tonight.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You're not going back to that house until we know where your documents are.”
Mom stood.
“That's ridiculous.”
Grandpa looked at me, not her.
“You decide.”
I thought about my room.
The missing spare key.
The title folder.
I hadn't checked it in two weeks.
Why would I?
Until that evening, I didn't know anyone had touched it.
“I'll stay.”
Mom stared.
“Amelia.”
“I'll get clothes tomorrow.”
“This is absurd.”
“Maybe.”
I picked up my purse.
“But I'm staying.”
Ava pushed past us toward the foyer.
She opened the front door.
Then turned.
“This is exactly why nobody can stand talking to you.”
I almost smiled.
“Because I want my own property?”
“Because you make everything into a moral trial.”
“You tried to have my car valued.”
“Because I needed financing.”
“With my name attached.”
“I said I wasn't selling it.”
“Then tomorrow should be easy.”
Ava looked toward Mom.
Mom didn't defend her this time.
Maybe because Grandpa was watching.
Ava slammed the door.
The sound traveled through the house.
Grandpa looked toward it.
Then at Mom.
“Drive your daughter home.”
Mom picked up her purse.
At the doorway, she stopped beside me.
“You've made your point.”
I shook my head.
“I haven't made one.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Finding out what happened.”
“You know what happened.”
“No.”
I looked toward Grandpa's phone.
“I know you took my keys.”
I paused.
“I don't know what else you took.”
Mom's face tightened.
Then she left.
Grandpa and I stood alone in the dining room.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Finally he sat down again.
“You should have called me.”
I knew that sentence was coming too.
“I didn't want to create drama.”
Grandpa looked almost angry.
“At whose expense?”
I stared at him.
He pointed toward my chair.
“Sit.”
I did.
He removed his glasses.
“Your mother has spent your entire life teaching you that keeping people comfortable is the same as keeping peace.”
I looked down.
“She doesn't mean to.”
“That isn't the same as not doing it.”
I swallowed.
Grandpa's voice softened.
“Why didn't you tell me the first day?”
I could have said I didn't know.
But I did.
“Because Ava would have said I was jealous.”
“And?”
“Mom would have said I was selfish.”
“And?”
“I thought you might think I couldn't handle it.”
That surprised him.
“Handle what?”
“The gift.”
His face changed.
“Amelia.”
“I know it sounds stupid.”
“It does.”
I laughed despite myself.
Grandpa almost smiled.
Then he leaned forward.
“The reason I gave you that vehicle is because you've spent six years handling everything.”
I looked at him.
“Your job. Your bills. Your father's death. Helping your mother.”
My throat tightened.
Dad had died when I was eighteen.
A heart attack.
Sudden.
After that, Mom changed.
Or maybe the difference between Ava and me simply became more visible.
I was in college.
Ava was sixteen.
Mom leaned on me because I was older.
Then kept leaning.
Somewhere along the way, responsibility stopped being something I did and became something the family believed I owed them.
Grandpa tapped the table.
“I didn't buy that vehicle because I thought you were incapable.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I nodded slowly.
“I'm starting to.”
The next morning, we reached Westlake Auto Gallery at eight fifty-three.
Grandpa insisted on driving.
My SUV remained in his garage overnight.
I had the key in my purse.
Both keys.
For the first time in two weeks.
Westlake was smaller than I expected.
Glass showroom.
Shiny used luxury cars.
A receptionist smiled when we entered.
“Can I help you?”
Grandpa answered.
“We're here about a valuation on a white SUV.”
She asked for the name.
I said mine.
Her smile disappeared.
“Amelia Harper?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward a hallway.
“Just one moment.”
That reaction told me more than I wanted to know.
A manager appeared three minutes later.
Mid-forties.
Gray suit.
Name tag:
ERIC DALTON — SALES DIRECTOR
He shook Grandpa's hand.
Then mine.
“Ms. Harper, I'm glad you came.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“Why don't we talk in my office?”
Grandpa and I exchanged a look.
Inside, Eric closed the door.
There was a folder on his desk.
My name was written across the tab.
He sat.
“I want to be clear that no transaction was completed.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What transaction?”
Eric opened the folder.
“Someone came here representing herself as having authority to discuss the sale or trade of your vehicle.”
“My sister.”
“Yes.”
“Did she say it was hers?”
Eric looked uncomfortable.
“She said ownership was being transferred within the family.”
Grandpa's jaw tightened.
“What did she present?”
Eric slid a copy across the desk.
My vehicle information.
VIN.
Purchase date.
Original price.
My address.
My full legal name.
My insurance carrier.
Information that had been inside the dealership folder in my bedroom.
I felt cold.
“She took my paperwork.”
Eric nodded slowly.
“We became concerned because the title information didn't match the person in front of us.”
“What did she want?”
“A valuation first.”
“And then?”
Eric glanced at Grandpa.
I said:
“Tell me.”
“She asked whether the vehicle could be used as part of a trade toward another purchase.”
I stared at him.
“What purchase?”
He opened another page.
A luxury coupe.
Used.
Two years old.
Still expensive.
Very Ava.
Grandpa asked:
“How much?”
“Just under seventy-two thousand.”
I nearly laughed.
My sister wanted to trade my practical SUV toward a seventy-two-thousand-dollar coupe.
Eric continued.
“She also mentioned using the difference between the trade value and financing structure as part of a business presentation.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“We didn't entirely understand either.”
Grandpa did.
“She wanted paperwork showing a high-value asset attached to her.”
Eric nodded.
“Something like that.”
I looked at the copied documents again.
Then noticed one page beneath them.
A purchase agreement.
Not completed.
Not valid.
But there was writing at the bottom.
A signature.
My name.
Except I hadn't written it.
My hand went completely still.
Grandpa saw it.
“What is that?”
Eric turned the sheet.
“We stopped here.”
“Why?”
“Because our compliance manager compared the signature to the digital title record.”
Grandpa leaned forward.
“And?”
Eric pointed.
“They didn't match.”
My chest tightened.
I stared at the handwriting.
Amelia Harper.
Someone had signed my name.
Grandpa spoke quietly.
“Did Ava sign this in front of you?”
Eric hesitated.
“No.”
“Who did?”
“She brought it in already signed.”
I looked up.
“So somebody forged my signature before she came here.”
Eric didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Grandpa stared at the document.
Then at me.
I thought of Mom.
The paperwork.
The spare key.
The promises to Ava.
I didn't want the thought.
But it came anyway.
Eric pulled one final sheet from the folder.
“There was also this.”
It was a photocopy of my driver's license.
My old driver's license.
The one I had replaced six months earlier because I thought I lost it.
Grandpa's face went hard.
“Where did she get that?”
I whispered:
“I don't know.”
But suddenly I remembered.
The day I lost it.
Mom had “helped” me search the kitchen.
My purse.
My laundry.
Then she told me to order a replacement.
Grandpa looked at the copied signature again.
He knew what I was thinking.
Before either of us could speak, Eric's office phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked straight at me.
“She's here.”
“Who?”
May you like
Eric slowly lowered the receiver.
“Your mother.”
