Chapter 2 - An Unexpected Visitor at the Door
I looked out the second-story window and saw Mallory stepping out of the passenger side of the car. Ryan was behind the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield, refusing to look at the house.
Before I could walk down to lock the deadbolt, the front doorbell began to ring. Once. Twice. A long, aggressive chime that rattled the brass plates.
I walked down the stairs slowly, my bare feet padding against the hardwood, and pulled the door open just an inch, keeping the security chain latched.
Mallory’s face was flushed, her breath pluming in the cold morning air. She wasn't holding a coffee cup or smiling. She had a manila folder clutched in her hands like a shield.
“Open the door, Camille. We need to talk like adults.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Mallory. You’re trespassing.”
“Trespassing? On property your father helped fund?” She let out a bitter, high-pitched laugh. “You think you’re so independent, don't you? Sitting in here with your corporate job and your stock options. Do you know what Ryan has been going through? His company cut his hours by twenty percent last month. We are drowning, and you’re acting like a dragon sitting on a pile of gold coins you didn't even earn yourself.”
“Your financial problems are not my emergency,” I said, my voice steady. “And that thirty thousand dollars Dad gave me? It was a down payment contribution in 2019. Do you want to see the ledger? Because I can print out every single penny of the four hundred thousand dollars I’ve paid out of my own bank account since then. Your husband hasn't spent a dime on this roof. Neither has your father.”
“It’s about family support!” she hissed, stepping closer to the threshold. “Your father spoke to a real estate attorney yesterday morning. Do you honestly think a court is going to let you keep an asset that was partially acquired with familial capital while your blood relatives face homelessness?”
The ground beneath my feet felt solid, but the sheer audacity of her statement took my breath away.
“Tell Dad to call his attorney back and ask him about statutes of limitations, sole-proprietor deeds, and verbal gift doctrines,” I replied, my fingers tightening around the edge of the door. “And then tell him that if either of you steps foot on this property again, I’m calling the Apex police department to file a restraining order.”
I unlatched the chain, shut the heavy wooden door in her face, and threw the deadbolt.
Through the frosted glass panel, I watched her stand there for a full minute, shaking with rage, before she turned and stomped back to the white sedan.
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Ryan didn't look at the house as they backed down the driveway. But as they pulled away, I noticed something strange in the passenger-side floorboard through the rear window: a stack of cardboard moving boxes, folded flat and ready for use.
They hadn't come to negotiate. They had come to measure.
