Chapter 2 - The Men Who Came to Claim a Living Man's HouseThe pounding continued.
"Mr. Cole! Open the door!"
My father's house had survived forty Minnesota-style winters, three major renovations, and one disastrous Thanksgiving when Vanessa set the dining room curtains on fire.
But I'd never heard its front door shake like that.
Dad stood beside the kitchen island, his phone clutched in one hand.
Vanessa was still on the line.
"Dad?" she whispered. "Who's there?"
He looked at the phone as if it had turned into something poisonous.
"That's what I'd like to know."
Then Brent's voice came through.
"Richard, don't make this complicated."
Dad's eyes narrowed.
"So you know who's standing outside my door."
"Just cooperate," Brent replied. "Nobody wants a scene."
I felt something settle in the pit of my stomach.
This wasn't a prank.
My sister and her husband had arranged something.
Something involving the legal system, my father's property, and a lie about his death.
I moved toward the front window.
Dad caught my wrist.
"Don't stand where they can see you."
His grip was surprisingly firm.
I stepped sideways and looked through the narrow opening between the curtains.
Two men stood on the porch.
One wore a dark overcoat and carried a leather folder. The other was younger, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black security jacket.
A white SUV was parked behind Dad's Ford.
Neither man wore a police uniform.
That mattered.
I took out my own phone and called 911 while Dad continued talking to Brent.
"I own this house," Dad said evenly. "I have lived here for thirty-two years. If you sent people to remove me, you have seriously misunderstood your position."
Brent scoffed.
"Things have changed, old man."
"Apparently."
"The property's tied up in a legal transfer."
"What transfer?"
"The one you authorized."
Dad turned toward me.
His expression told me everything.
He had authorized nothing.
I gave the dispatcher our address and explained that two unidentified men were trying to enter an occupied house, claiming they had a court order.
Outside, the man with the folder knocked again.
"Mr. Cole, I'm Daniel Mercer, representing Holloway Asset Management. We need to discuss a recorded transfer agreement."
Dad stopped speaking.
For one strange second, he looked almost relieved.
"Holloway," he repeated.
Brent immediately said, "Who is that?"
Dad's face hardened.
"Your biggest mistake."
He ended the call.
Then he motioned toward the front hallway.
"Come with me, Natalie. Stay behind the security door."
Dad had installed a reinforced storm door after a string of burglaries in the neighborhood. We approached with it locked.
Through the glass, I could see that Daniel Mercer was a thin man in his late fifties, with a carefully trimmed beard and expensive shoes that were rapidly collecting snow.
"Mr. Cole?" he said.
"Speaking."
Mercer blinked.
He looked down at his folder.
Then back at Dad.
"You're Richard Andrew Cole?"
"Last time I checked."
Mercer's face lost color.
The younger man glanced at him.
"Sir?"
Mercer swallowed.
"Mr. Cole, I was informed you passed away yesterday evening."
Dad folded his arms.
"That seems to be going around."
Mercer opened his folder with shaking hands.
"I have documents stating that your estate has been transferred to the Cole Family Legacy Trust."
"Never heard of it."
"Your daughter Vanessa Lawson is listed as the acting trustee."
"Then somebody has been extraordinarily creative."
Mercer hesitated.
"Sir, we also have a notarized affidavit stating that you've been declared incapacitated and that Mrs. Lawson holds authority to manage your assets."
My heart dropped.
Dead.
Incapacitated.
Two different lies designed to accomplish the same thing.
Take control away from Dad.
I heard a police cruiser approaching.
Mercer turned toward the sound.
Dad didn't move.
"Tell me something, Mr. Mercer," he said. "Have you actually seen this court order you're supposedly enforcing?"
Mercer glanced at his companion.
"There's an emergency petition."
"That wasn't my question."
Mercer looked back into his folder.
"No," he admitted.
Dad nodded.
"That's what I thought."
Two Columbus-area sheriff's deputies stepped onto the porch moments later.
I opened the inner door but left the storm door locked while explaining what had happened.
The senior deputy, a woman named Sergeant Elaine Foster, studied the paperwork Mercer passed through the opening.
Her expression became increasingly skeptical.
"This isn't a court order," she said.
Mercer looked embarrassed.
"It's a notice of pending legal action."
"Then you have no authority to secure this house."
"No, ma'am."
She pointed toward the driveway.
"Step off the porch."
The younger man obeyed immediately.
Mercer hesitated, then followed.
When they were gone, Sergeant Foster asked Dad whether he wanted to make a report.
"Absolutely," he answered.
She asked about the family dispute.
Dad explained the call.
I played the recording.
I watched the deputy's expression change when Vanessa announced Dad's death and Brent laughed about selling his house.
She took notes.
Then she asked whether Dad had recently signed any property documents.
"No," he said.
"Have you given your daughter power of attorney?"
Dad's answer surprised me.
"Yes. Three years ago, after my heart surgery."
I stared at him.
He turned toward me.
"Limited authority for medical emergencies. Nothing financial."
The deputy wrote that down.
But Dad wasn't finished.
"Six months ago, I revoked it after discovering Vanessa had contacted my doctors without permission."
"What did she want?" Sergeant Foster asked.
Dad looked away.
"She wanted them to tell her whether my memory problems were getting worse."
I felt an unpleasant chill.
"Dad, you don't have memory problems."
"I know."
"Then why would she ask?"
He looked at me.
"Because she needed somebody to believe I did."
After the deputies left, Dad finally told me about the bank.
Two days earlier, he'd received an automated notice that someone had attempted to access his investment accounts using a financial power of attorney.
The document carried his signature.
Except it wasn't his signature.
He'd contacted his banker, who flagged the accounts and alerted their fraud department.
Yesterday, a second request had arrived.
This one involved the house.
Someone had submitted documents to transfer the estate into a newly formed trust.
The supporting papers supposedly included a physician's statement declaring Dad unable to manage his affairs.
Dad had never seen that physician.
And the notary who certified his signature?
A woman named Pamela Rourke.
Brent's cousin.
My father's voice grew quieter as he explained.
"I wanted to know how far they'd go."
I gripped the kitchen counter.
"You knew Vanessa was doing this?"
"I suspected."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't have enough proof."
"Dad, somebody just showed up to throw you out of your own house!"
He looked down.
"I didn't think she'd go this far."
Those words hurt more than he probably realized.
For years, Dad had excused Vanessa's behavior.
The unpaid loans.
The manipulative phone calls.
The fabricated emergencies.
He'd always said she was struggling.
That families helped each other.
That sooner or later she would grow up.
Now she was trying to take his home while he was alive.
And he'd still hoped it was a misunderstanding.
I put my hand over his.
"We need an attorney."
Dad gave a humorless laugh.
"I already called one."
"Who?"
"Rebecca Shaw."
I knew that name.
Rebecca had handled the sale of Dad's construction company five years earlier. She was brilliant, expensive, and about as easily intimidated as a brick wall.
"When is she coming?"
"Eight."
I looked at the clock.
7:14.
Then Dad added something that made me forget about the coffee growing cold beside me.
"She asked me not to tell Vanessa about the investigation."
"What investigation?"
Dad stared toward the window.
"The missing money."
My chest tightened.
"How much?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "A little over eight hundred thousand dollars."
I sat down.
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.
"Eight hundred thousand?"
Dad nodded.
"From a business account I thought was inactive."
"How?"
"We're still finding out."
I stared at him.
"How long have you known?"
"Three weeks."
"And you didn't say anything?"
He pressed his lips together.
"Natalie, there's something else."
I had begun to hate those words.
He reached into his robe pocket and removed a small envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Brent standing outside a bank with a woman I had never seen.
She was holding a briefcase.
Brent was kissing her.
Not a friendly kiss.
Not a businesslike greeting.
The woman's hand was pressed against his chest.
I looked at Dad.
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Claudia Voss."
"And?"
"She's the attorney who prepared the fraudulent trust documents."
I looked back at the picture.
A man cheating on my sister was bad enough.
A man conspiring with an attorney to steal my father's estate was worse.
But Dad hadn't reached the worst part.
"Claudia isn't just Brent's girlfriend," he said.
"Then who is she?"
Dad stared at me with an expression I'd never seen before.
"According to the records Rebecca found, she and Brent were legally married twelve years ago."
I felt my jaw go slack.
"But Vanessa married Brent ten years ago."
Dad nodded slowly.
"Exactly."
And suddenly, my sister wasn't the only person in that marriage who had been living a lie.
At 7:32 a.m., my phone lit up with a text from Vanessa.
You should have let Dad stay dead.
I read it twice.
May you like
Then another message appeared.
Because now things are going to get much worse.
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