Chapter 8 - The Queen’s Gambit
The phone buzzed against the polished wood of the entry table, its relentless vibration sounding like an insect trapped in a jar.
Greg stared at it as if it were a venomous snake coiled and ready to strike. The screen flashed Janet, accompanied by a small photo of his mother smiling benignly—a picture taken years before we ever met, back when Greg was still the obedient, compliant son who jumped whenever she pulled the strings.
“Answer it,” I said quietly, placing my hand over his clenched fist. “If we don't face this now, they win on their terms.”
Greg took a deep, shuddering breath, reached out, and swiped the green answer icon, hitting speakerphone so we could both hear.
“You have some nerve calling here,” Greg said, his voice hard as iron.
For a second, there was only static on the line. Then Janet’s voice came through, sounding remarkably calm, entirely devoid of the theatrical hysterics she had displayed on our porch just nights before.
“Did Mr. Vance deliver our message, Gregory?” Janet asked, her tone dripping with a chilling, sickening sweetness.
Greg didn't yell. The raw fury in his voice had crystallized into something far more dangerous. “You forged a co-signer liability rider. You trapped your own son in a half-million-dollar mortgage default just because I stopped paying your bills.”
“We didn't trap you, darling, we secured our future,” Janet replied smoothly, as if she were discussing weather patterns. “You chose to listen to this woman standing next to you. You chose to humiliate your mother in front of our entire family over a seating chart at a children’s party. You thought you could cut us off like stray dogs and walk away.”
“I’m going to take this to the district attorney,” Greg threatened, leaning down toward the phone. “Fraud and forgery are criminal offenses, Mom. I don't care who signed what—if you used deception to execute that contract, you’re looking at prison time.”
Janet let out a low, cold laugh.
“Go ahead, Gregory. Call the police,” she challenged, her voice sharpening with venom. “By the time the investigators sort through four-year-old notarized documents and bank affidavits, your credit will be obliterated, your assets will be seized by the lender, and this little house you bought with your precious new family will be repossessed at a public sheriff’s auction. We have nothing left to lose. But you? You have everything.”
“What do you want, Janet?” I interrupted, stepping closer to the phone. I couldn't listen to her masked sadism another second. “Name your price and stop playing these disgusting games.”
There was a pause on the line, as if Janet was savoring the victory.
“Simple,” Janet replied. “First, the monthly wire transfers are reinstated immediately, with back-pay for this month, indexed with a ten percent inflation adjustment. Second, you sign a binding legal agreement granting me and your father unconditional weekend visitation rights with Amber, Mason... and yes, even little June, on our terms, without interference.”
And third?” Greg asked, knowing there was always a third demand.
“Third,” Janet said, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a chill straight down my spine. “You bring June to our house this Sunday afternoon, drop her off at the front door, and apologize to your mother on your knees in front of your brother’s family. Only then will we instruct Mr. Vance to pause the foreclosure proceedings.”
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Greg lowered his phone slowly, his face drained of all color. Half a million dollars in liabilities. A foreclosure proceeding on our doorstep. A mother who was willing to destroy her own son’s life just to prove she still owned him.
“We can't pay that, Greg,” I said, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “We don't have five hundred thousand dollars liquid. If they force the acceleration clause, we’re bankrupt.”
Greg didn't answer. He walked over to the living room window, looking out toward the empty street where Arthur Vance’s sedan had vanished just moments before.
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“We aren't going to bankruptcy court,” Greg said quietly, his eyes fixing on a silver car pulling slowly into our driveway. “And we aren't going to my mother’s house on her terms.”
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