Chapter 4 - THE HIDDEN LEDGER"You can't do that!" Susan shrieked, breaking the silence as she pointed a manicured finger at my chest. "You think you can intimidate us with empty threats? We have lived here, we have maintained this property—"
"You've treated my parents like slaves while bleeding my bank accounts dry," I snapped, cutting her off completely. "And speaking of bank accounts... where is the money, Jessica?"
Jessica crossed her arms tightly, lifting her chin in defiance. "What money? Whatever you sent went toward household expenses! Food, electricity, property taxes, maintenance—everything costs money, Daniel! You live in a fantasy world if you think living out here is cheap!"
"Four thousand dollars a month for three years comes out to nearly one hundred and forty-four thousand dollars," I said, stepping closer to her until she was forced to look directly up into my eyes. "The property tax on this land is three thousand a year. The electric bill is two hundred a month. Even with groceries and basic upkeep, you're burning through less than a quarter of that sum. So where is the rest of it, Jessica?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes darted toward the hallway leading to the back bedrooms.
My mother, sensing the tension, looked up timidly. "Daniel... when they took over the upstairs room... they wouldn't let us go in there. They kept a heavy padlock on the door. They said it was their private office."
A padlock. Inside a house I bought for my parents.
"Show me," I said, turning away from Jessica and walking straight out of the kitchen toward the hallway.
"Don't you dare!" Jessica screamed, lunging forward to block my path. "That is private property! You have no right to search our personal belongings! I'm calling the police!"
"Go ahead," I said without looking back. "Call them. Tell them you're trespassing in a house owned by Arthur and Martha Vance, using a fraudulent power of attorney. Let's see who the deputies arrest first."
Jessica froze in her tracks, her chest heaving with rage and panic. Susan grabbed her arm, whispering frantically, but it was too late. I had already reached the master hallway.
At the end of the hall stood the guest room door—the room where my brother used to sleep, and where my parents had intended to host grandchildren one day. Now, it was sealed with a heavy-duty brass padlock and a thick steel chain.
I didn't bother looking for the key.
With a surge of adrenaline fueled by years of exhaustion, sacrifice, and pure fury, I planted my boot against the center of the wooden door right beside the latch and kicked with all my might.
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CRACK!
The wood splintered violently around the lock mechanism, and the door swung wide open, slamming against the drywall with a thunderous echo.
