Chapter 8 - The Person Behind Thanksgiving
James wanted us to go home.
Not to my parents’ house.
Our home.
Lock the doors. Save the documents. Call an attorney. Stop giving Lauren opportunities to control the pace.
He was right.
I hated that he was right because part of me still wanted to drive straight to Mom’s house and demand a name.
Instead, we picked Emma up from James’s sister, who had watched her during the bank meeting, and went home.
At noon, someone knocked.
James checked the camera before opening the door.
Ryan stood on the porch with Caleb.
My nephew was eight now. Thin, serious, with Lauren’s dark eyes and Ryan’s nervous habit of rubbing his thumb across his knuckles.
When he saw me, he hugged my waist.
“Is Emma okay?”
“She’s okay.”
His shoulders dropped with relief.
That broke my heart more than anything else had.
He already knew to ask whether a baby was okay after spending time with his mother.
Ryan handed James a small tablet.
“Caleb heard Lauren talking to Susan two nights ago. He recorded part of it because… well, because I taught him to record when adults start yelling.”
No child should need that skill.
Caleb stared at the floor.
“I thought Grandma was mad at Mom.”
“It’s okay, buddy,” Ryan said. “You did the right thing.”
James connected the tablet to a speaker.
The audio was muffled at first.
Then my mother’s voice came through.
“…I just need Claire to sign. Once she signs, nobody loses anything.”
Lauren answered, “James won’t let her.”
“He doesn’t own her.”
“He reads everything. He’ll ask questions.”
A pause.
Then another voice.
Male.
Older.
Familiar.
“If he becomes the problem, make him the problem.”
I stopped breathing.
Ryan looked at me.
“You recognize him?”
I did.
But my brain refused to say the name.
James replayed the clip.
The man continued.
“One complaint to his command and he’ll spend the next month defending himself instead of interfering with the loan.”
My knees went weak.
James caught my elbow.
The voice belonged to Uncle Mark.
My mother’s older brother.
The same uncle who had sat three seats away from James at Thanksgiving dinner.
The same man who had shifted uncomfortably when Lauren hit Emma.
The same man who had said nothing.
I whispered, “Why would Uncle Mark care about Lauren’s loan?”
Dad, who had come in through the garage ten minutes earlier, answered from behind us.
“Because it isn’t Lauren’s loan.”
We all turned.
He looked worse than he had at the bank.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Dad set his phone on the table.
On the screen was a company name.
Bennett Property Holdings LLC.
I had never heard of it.
Dad swallowed.
“Your uncle created this company six months ago.”
James picked up the phone.
“What does it own?”
“Nothing yet.”
Dad looked at me.
“But according to the paperwork I found in Susan’s desk, it was supposed to own the lake property the day after the refinance closed.”
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