Chapter 3 - The Panic at the Title Office
Raymond’s breathing on the other end of the line sounded ragged and shallow. The invincible patriarch was finally crumbling.
“The buyer isn't just walking away, Sabrina!” my father stammered, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. “They’re claiming we committed material misrepresentation by concealing structural instability! They’re demanding their $182,000 back immediately! But... but the money’s already wired to the escrow builder account for Alyssa’s mansion! The builder won't release it back without a massive penalty fee!”
“Well, that’s terrible timing,” I said smoothly, spinning my desk pen between my fingers. “Especially since you used a forged power of attorney to execute the sale in my name. If the buyers are claiming fraud, federal wire fraud investigators might want to take a very close look at whose signature authorized the title transfer in the first place.”
A sharp, terrified intake of breath hissed through the receiver. “You... you wouldn't.”
“Try me, Dad,” I whispered, the warmth completely draining from my tone. “You and Alyssa stripped away the only thing Wyatt left me, thinking a grieving widow was too weak to fight back. You made your bed. Now you get to sink into it.”
I hung up the phone before he could reply, letting the dial tone serve as his soundtrack.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed again. This time it was Alyssa. I let it ring out to voicemail. When I finally checked the transcription, her voice was a shrill, manic mess of tears and fury, screaming that her dream house was falling apart because the builder was threatening to cancel her contract over the frozen escrow funds.
They were trapped in a vice of their own making. The cash-buyers were threatening a multi-million-dollar civil lawsuit for fraudulent conveyance, the county was levying emergency environmental fines for the massive slope erosion, and Alyssa’s precious McMansion purchase was collapsing under the weight of unverified funds.
I grabbed my coat, walked out to my car, and decided it was time to pay them a little visit at the downtown title office to watch the grand finale.
The rain was beginning to sheet down in heavy gray curtains as I pulled my sedan into the parking lot of the Commonwealth Title building. Inside the sleek, marble-floored lobby, the atmosphere was thick with tension and the smell of stale coffee.
Through the glass partition of Conference Room B, I could see my father pacing frantically, wringing his hands while a red-faced man in an expensive gray suit—presumably the principal of the investment LLC—shouted angrily at a pair of title officers. Alyssa sat slumped in a chair in the corner, sobbing mascara tears down her cheeks as she clutched her phone like a lifeline.
I pushed the glass door open, stepping casually into the room with a polite, professional smile.
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“Good afternoon, everyone,” I said, clearing my throat softly. “I hear there’s a bit of a foundation issue with the property?”
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