“Vincent Caruso?” the stranger said.
He stood at the top of the basement stairs with one hand on the doorframe.
Light from the kitchen cut around his shoulders, leaving most of his face in shadow.
Behind him, Anthony had gone completely pale.
I kept the phone pressed against my ear.
“I’m Vincent.”
The stranger looked down at the blood beside my head, then at my wrist.
For the first time since he had entered the house, his expression changed.
Not sympathy.
Calculation.
He turned slowly toward my son.
“You said your father wasn’t a problem.”
Anthony swallowed.
“He fell.”
I almost laughed.
Brittany appeared behind him with the baby held tightly against her chest.
“He’s confused,” she said quickly.
“He’s been getting confused lately.”
That was new.
Three hours earlier, I had been stubborn.
Now I was confused.
People become whatever their abusers need them to become.
The stranger took one step down.
“Did you fall, Mr.
Caruso?”
“No.”
Anthony’s face tightened.
“Dad, don’t.”
I looked directly at the man above me.
“My son pushed me.”
Nobody moved.
The second stranger appeared in the doorway.
He was holding the folder Anthony had kept in his desk.
Even from the basement floor, I recognized its dark blue cover.
My son had apparently moved it from his office after realizing I knew something.
The second man flipped through several pages.
“You told us the transfer was clean,” he said.
“It is,” Anthony insisted.
I raised the phone slightly.
“No, it isn’t.”
Anthony glared down at me.
I continued.
“I never signed that deed.”
The second man stopped turning pages.
Brittany whispered, “Anthony.”
He ignored her.
“He agreed to it,” Anthony said.
“He’s lying because he changed his mind.”
The man with the folder looked at me.
“Did you sign the loan documents?”
“No.”
“The reverse mortgage?”
“No.”
“Anything transferring this property?”
“No.”
Anthony started down the stairs.
