A copy of the quit-claim deed.
My forged signature sat at the bottom.
Behind it was the reverse-mortgage paperwork.
Anthony hadn’t merely planned to use the documents.
He had already used them.
“He said you transferred the property,” the man told me.
“I didn’t.”
“He said you signed the financing.”
“I didn’t.”
His jaw tightened.
I could almost see Anthony’s lies collapsing inside his head.
Then my phone spoke.
“Vincent.”
Marcus’s voice was quiet but unmistakable.
Both men looked toward it.
The first man took one step backward.
“Who’s that?”
“Someone who remembers Apex.”
That landed.
Neither man threatened me.
Neither needed to.
The room had already changed.
The second one said something under his breath, and the first snapped, “Call Anthony.”
A phone came out.
Seconds later, Anthony answered.
I couldn’t hear his words, only the man’s side of the conversation.
“We’re at the house.”
Pause.
“No, you listen to me.
Your father is here.”
Another pause.
“He says he never signed anything.”
The man’s eyes stayed fixed on me.
Whatever Anthony said next made him lower the phone and stare at the wall as if he were deciding how badly he had been deceived.
Then he said, “You have ten minutes.”
He ended the call.
I knew my son well enough to understand what happened next.
He panicked.
Less than ten minutes later, tires squealed outside.
The front door, already damaged, slammed against the wall.
Anthony rushed in first.
Brittany followed, leaving the baby outside the immediate confrontation with whoever had driven them back.
Anthony stopped when he saw the men.
Then he saw the open basement door.
Then he saw me.
His face emptied.
“Dad.”
It was the first time that night he had sounded like my son.
Brittany pushed past him.
Her eyes went immediately to the packet in the stranger’s hand.
“What are they doing here?” she demanded.
No one answered her.
Anthony came halfway down the stairs.
“You fell?” he said.
For a moment I thought I had misheard him.
Then I understood.
