Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
The swinging door flew open.
Dad stood in the threshold, his face flushed red from the wine and the shouting match he’d just had with Uncle Greg. He held a linen napkin balled up in his right fist.
"Dad, stop filling her head with drama," Dad said, trying to laugh it off, though the pitch of his voice was half an octave too high. "Roxanne’s an emotional girl. She exaggerates things when she’s tired. You know how she gets after holiday shifts."
Walter didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He took three deliberate steps toward his son, closing the distance until they were barely a foot apart.
"Where is the probate packet, Tom?" Walter asked.
Dad’s smile dissolved. His eyes flicked to me, then back to Walter, a small bead of sweat forming at his hairline. "What are you talking about? Mom’s estate went through standard administration. We settled the back taxes on the 4th Street property years ago."
"Don't lie to me in your mother’s kitchen," Walter said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "I set up that custodial account myself at the Credit Union in 2018. The trust mandated that upon Roxanne turning twenty-one, the title to the building and all commercial rental proceeds would transfer to her name alone."
"She was nineteen and reckless!" Mom’s voice shrilled as she pushed past Dad into the kitchen. She had tears in the corners of her eyes, but her gaze was sharp, darting between the two men. "She didn't know the first thing about property management! Tom had to step in as trustee to save the building from foreclosure!"
"Foreclosure?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of shock and sheer rage. "The ground-floor bakery generates fourteen thousand dollars a month in commercial revenue. I do the inventory sheets every Tuesday night on Dad's desk!"
Dad’s hand tightened around the linen napkin until his knuckles turned white. "You weren't supposed to be reading those ledgers, Roxanne."
"You forged her waiver signature, didn't you, Tom?" Walter said.
The silence that fell over the kitchen was suffocating.
Outside, a car horn blared on the street—a neighbor leaving after dinner. In the dining room, the faint clinking of Vanessa’s fork against her plate was the only sound left in the house.
Dad looked at Walter, his jaw setting into a stubborn, defensive sneer. "We kept a roof over her head. We gave her a job. If she wants to play landlord, she can pay the deferred maintenance fees we’ve covered out of our own pockets for four years."
Walter reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his car keys, and turned to me.
"Roxanne," he said. "Get your coat. You're never sleeping in that basement again."
---
NEXT CHAPTER 👉 👉 👉
If you enjoyed the story, bookmark my site: [https://metro.treeiq.biz](https://metro.treeiq.biz)
May you like
New stories are posted daily, so check back for updates.
---
