Chapter 6 - The Consultation
The law office smelled of old paper, lemon wax, and the distinct, dry metallic scent of a copier that had been overworked.
The attorney, a woman named Sarah Vance whose hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant twist, didn’t look up from the document I had placed on her desk for a long full minute. Her glasses sat low on her nose as she scanned the transfer deed. Across from her, I sat with my hands folded in my lap, feeling the pulse thumping steadily against my ribs.
“You’re certain this is genuine?” Ms. Vance asked, her voice calm, devoid of the theatrical shock I had felt in the diner.
“My sister provided a duplicate from my father’s home office files,” I said. “And the notary stamp matches the county records database online. I checked while I was sitting in my car outside.”
She leaned back, folding her hands over the legal pad. “If this deed was executed six months ago, exactly when you began funding the $122,000 kitchen remodel, and your name was omitted entirely from any title or equity adjustments, then you didn’t just make a gift, Ms. Roland. You were induced to improve a property under false pretenses.”
“Can we claw the money back?”
“We can do more than that,” she said quietly. “Depending on how far you want to push this, a civil suit for fraudulent inducement and unjust enrichment is entirely viable. Furthermore, if your parents solicited funds for a capital improvement on a home they had already legally alienated without disclosing that transfer to you, there are serious legal implications regarding misrepresentation.”
She paused, watching my face carefully.
“You look like you expected me to hesitate.”
“I expected you to tell me it’s a family matter and I should just walk away,” I admitted.
“I practice civil law, Ms. Roland. Family matters are almost always financial matters disguised as holiday drama.” She slid the deed toward the center of the desk. “Tell me about your parents. Are they the type to dig in their heels when confronted, or do they fold when legal pressure is applied?”
“They’ve never faced legal pressure,” I said. “They live in a world where politeness and parental authority are supposed to shield them from consequences. If I send a lawyer’s letter, my mother won't think she did anything wrong. She’ll think I’m attacking her character.”
“Let her think whatever she likes,” Ms. Vance said briskly, reaching for a pen. “Character doesn't hold up very well against a lien on a title deed.”
When I left the office an hour later, the gray afternoon had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It wasn’t a text this time. It was a direct call from my mother.
I stared at the caller ID flashing Mom against the dark glass of the screen. For thirty-two years, that name had triggered an immediate, automatic compliance in me—a reflex to answer, to soothe, to manage, to fix whatever mood she was currently projecting.
I pressed the red button, sending her straight to voicemail.
Then I unlocked my phone, opened my contacts, and sent a short text to Ryan, who was still staying at the extended-stay hotel near his office.
Are you free tonight? We need to talk about what happens next.
May you like
His reply came back within ten seconds.
Name the place.
