Felicia stopped three feet from him.
“Because she helped me find the place.”
“And these transfers?”
“Christmas expenses.”
I watched her.
Derek did too.
He tapped one figure with his finger.
“You sent Cassandra thousands of dollars for Christmas expenses?”
Felicia’s gaze flicked toward me.
“Why does she have our private bank information?”
“She doesn’t,” I said.
“You left the statements downstairs.”
“And you just happened to make copies?”
“I made copies after I found an email discussing my property.”
That landed.
Her shoulders stiffened.
Derek looked between us.
“What email?”
I handed him the page again.
Felicia lunged for it.
I pulled it away.
Not dramatically.
I simply moved my hand first.
“Don’t,” I said.
Her eyes sharpened.
“That email is being taken out of context.”
“Then give us the context.”
She looked at Derek.
“Your mother is upset about Christmas and now she’s turning everything into some conspiracy.”
I said nothing.
That frustrated her more than an argument would have.
She pointed at the folder.
“Martin is a real estate professional.
We talk about real estate.
Cassandra wants to invest.
That’s all.”
Derek stared at the sentence about the temporary title issue.
“Why is he talking about Mom’s house?”
Felicia took a breath.
“Because eventually it will be yours.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s reality.”
The word hung in my kitchen.
Reality.
I closed the folder.
“My reality is that I am alive, I own this house, and nobody has permission to plan around my death.”
Felicia rolled her eyes.
It was a tiny movement.
Derek saw it.
Something in his expression changed.
“Did you tell Martin we were going to get this house?”
“I said it would probably stay in the family.”
“Did you tell him Mom agreed?”
She didn’t answer.
Derek repeated the question.
“Felicia.
