Chapter 3 - The House My Sister Claimed Was Hers
For several seconds, nobody moved.
I almost thought I had misheard him.
"Because what was Rebecca's?"
Dad swallowed.
"The house."
Rebecca closed her eyes.
Mom whispered, "Tom."
He shook his head.
"No. This has gone too far."
Aunt Linda suddenly became very interested in gathering napkins from the porch table.
I noticed.
"So," I said slowly, "you're telling me Rebecca believes my house belongs to her?"
Dad looked miserable.
"Believed."
Rebecca opened her eyes.
"Don't talk about me like I'm not standing here."
"Then explain it yourself," I said.
Her face tightened.
"I was going to."
"When? Before or after you banned me from entering my own property?"
"It's complicated."
"No. Complicated is Navy procurement. This is a deed."
Deputy Harrison remained nearby but deliberately gave us space.
Most relatives had gathered around.
Rebecca hated losing control of an audience.
She especially hated when silence forced her to fill it.
Finally she said, "Grandpa promised me this property."
I stared.
"This property didn't belong to Grandpa."
"Not officially."
That sentence changed the atmosphere.
Dad rubbed both hands over his face.
"Rebecca."
"What? We're already here."
I looked at my mother.
"Did you know about this?"
She hesitated.
That was answer enough.
"How long?"
"Claire..."
"How long?"
"Since last year."
I laughed once.
It sounded harsher than I intended.
"Fantastic."
Mom stepped closer.
"Please listen."
"I've been doing nothing but listening."
She glanced toward the relatives.
"Can we do this privately?"
"No."
Rebecca looked almost pleased.
"Good."
I turned to her.
"Don't mistake my refusal to hide your behavior for support."
Her smile disappeared.
Dad asked everyone to give us some space.
Some moved toward the yard.
Others stayed close enough to hear.
Marcus remained near the steps.
I didn't mind.
He had earned the truth.
Dad began carefully.
"Your grandfather helped a friend buy this property decades ago."
I looked at the house.
"That doesn't make sense. It was built seventeen years ago."
"The land," Dad corrected. "Not the house."
Apparently, according to him, Grandpa had once invested in several coastal parcels with a business partner named Walter Hale.
When the partnership dissolved, ownership became messy.
Some land was sold.
Some transferred.
One parcel supposedly remained associated with an informal agreement.
The parcel beneath my house.
I shook my head.
"I bought this from the Harrison estate three years ago."
Dad nodded.
"We know."
"Then Grandpa's agreement is irrelevant."
Rebecca cut in.
"Unless the estate never had the right to sell it."
I looked at her.
There was triumph in her expression now.
Small.
Dangerous.
She had been waiting to say that.
"Is that what the gray-haired man told you?"
Her face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
Mom whispered, "What man?"
I showed the photograph.
Rebecca and Trevor.
My kitchen.
Gray-haired stranger.
The blue folder.
Rebecca stared at the phone.
"Who sent you that?"
"Who is he?"
No answer.
"Rebecca."
She crossed her arms.
"An attorney."
"Name?"
She hesitated.
"Gerald Pike."
Dad cursed under his breath.
That caught my attention.
"You know him?"
Dad looked at Rebecca.
"You contacted Gerald?"
Rebecca snapped, "Someone had to."
My mother looked frightened.
"Tom, who is Gerald?"
Dad did not answer immediately.
Then:
"He worked for Walter Hale."
The dead business partner.
Suddenly the whole afternoon felt less ridiculous.
"Worked how?"
"Attorney. Adviser. Fixer. Whatever Walter needed."
"And he's been inside my house."
Dad stared at Rebecca.
"You let him in?"
"He showed me documents."
"You let him into Claire's house?"
"Stop acting like I committed murder."
"No," I said. "You just copied a key, disabled cameras, searched my office, removed documents, and hosted seventy relatives on property you don't own."
Her eyes flashed.
"It should have been mine."
There it was.
Not uncertainty.
Not confusion.
Entitlement.
"Why?"
"Because Grandpa promised."
"When?"
"When I was twenty."
"He told you he'd give you land he apparently didn't own?"
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Make everything sound stupid."
"I don't need to."
"Claire."
Mom's voice carried warning.
I looked at her.
She stopped.
My relationship with Rebecca had always been shaped by one family rule:
Rebecca could hurt people emotionally as long as everyone agreed her feelings were complicated.
Anyone responding to her became the real problem.
At thirty-nine, I had finally retired from that arrangement.
Dad sat on the porch step.
"Gerald came to me six months ago."
Rebecca looked shocked.
"You never told me that."
"I told him to stay away."
"What did he want?"
Dad looked at me.
"Money."
"Of course."
"He claimed Walter left papers proving your grandfather retained an interest in the land."
"Did you see them?"
"Copies."
"Legitimate?"
"I don't know."
Rebecca said, "They are."
"How would you know?"
"Gerald had them authenticated."
"By whom?"
She paused.
I almost smiled.
"Exactly."
Dad continued.
"Gerald said if we challenged the current title, there might be a settlement."
My patience thinned.
"We?"
"He approached the family."
"No. He approached you."
Dad looked ashamed.
"Yes."
"And instead of calling me—the person who owns the property—you entertained it?"
"I didn't."
"Then why does Rebecca know?"
Silence.
Aunt Linda spoke from behind us.
"Because I told her."
Everyone turned.
Linda walked closer.
She was Mom's older sister and had never met information she didn't believe should become family currency.
"Gerald contacted me after Tom refused."
"Why?"
"Because he knew Grandpa."
"That doesn't answer the question."
She sighed.
"He said Rebecca was named in an old letter."
I looked at Rebecca.
She nodded.
"A letter saying what?"
"That Grandpa wanted me to have the coastal property."
"Do you have it?"
"Gerald does."
Convenient.
I asked, "Did Grandpa write the letter?"
"Yes."
"Have you verified his handwriting?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
Rebecca's mouth tightened again.
I noticed a pattern.
Everything she believed depended on Gerald.
"That's why you took my folder."
"I didn't take it."
"The photograph shows Gerald holding it."
"He found it."
"In my locked drawer?"
She looked away.
Deputy Harrison stepped closer.
"Ms. Blake, I need to clarify something. Did you authorize Mr. Pike to enter this residence?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"No."
"Did you give him access?"
"I gave Trevor the key."
"Where did you obtain the key?"
Finally.
The question she had avoided since the beginning.
Rebecca looked toward Mom.
Mom looked horrified.
I followed her gaze.
"Mom?"
My mother whispered, "I gave it to her."
The words hit harder than anything Rebecca had said.
"What?"
"Not for this."
Mom's eyes filled.
"Claire, please believe me."
I waited.
"Last Christmas," she continued, "you were overseas. Rebecca said she wanted to leave you a surprise. Groceries, decorations, something for when you came back."
I remembered.
I returned to find the refrigerator stocked.
Fresh flowers.
A small Christmas wreath.
Rebecca had texted:
Thought you shouldn't come home to an empty house.
For once, I had been touched.
"You gave her my emergency key."
"Just for that day."
"And she copied it."
Mom looked at Rebecca.
Rebecca said nothing.
That hurt more than the theft.
Not because of the key.
Because I had spent months believing one of Rebecca's few apparently kind gestures was genuine.
It had been reconnaissance.
Dad stood.
"Enough. Give Claire the copy."
Rebecca laughed bitterly.
"I don't have it."
"Where is it?"
"Gerald has it."
Of course he did.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Another photograph.
This one showed Gerald Pike walking into a bank.
Timestamp:
This morning.
The next message read:
HE ISN'T TRYING TO TAKE THE HOUSE.
I waited.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
A second message arrived.
HE IS TRYING TO FIND WHAT YOUR GRANDFATHER HID INSIDE IT.
My skin prickled.
I looked toward the upstairs windows.
The unopened envelope from Grandpa had vanished with my folder.
"What did Grandpa hide?" I whispered.
Dad's face went white.
That reaction was unmistakable.
"You know."
He stood so quickly the porch chair behind him tipped.
"Claire, where's the letter?"
"Gone."
"What letter?" Rebecca demanded.
Dad ignored her.
"The envelope he gave you."
I stared.
"You knew about it?"
Dad grabbed my arm.
Not violently.
Desperately.
"Did you ever open it?"
"No."
He released a breath.
"Thank God."
Rebecca stepped forward.
"What envelope?"
Dad looked toward the house.
Then at me.
"We need to find Gerald before he opens it."
"Why?"
His next words were barely audible.
"Because your grandfather didn't leave you instructions about property."
A vehicle turned onto Sandpiper Lane.
Dad stopped speaking.
A black sedan moved slowly toward the house.
Rebecca whispered:
"That's Gerald."
The sedan stopped.
The rear door opened.
But the man who stepped out was not Gerald Pike.
My father stared at him.
May you like
Then whispered a name I had never heard before.
And the stranger was holding my grandfather's envelope.
