PART 2
That afternoon, I opened my banking records.
At first, I simply stared at the screen.
Then I began adding the numbers.
Month after month.
Year after year.
Transfers for groceries.
Transfers for household bills.
Transfers for repairs.
Transfers for medication.
Transfers for emergencies Lucas said could not wait.
In three years alone, I had sent him more than sixty thousand dollars.
I carried my laptop into the kitchen and set it on the counter.
“Explain this.”
Lucas glanced at the screen.
“I already told you. It went toward the house.”
“Sixty thousand dollars?”
“Utilities. Groceries. Furniture. Repairs. Everything costs money, Brandon.”
I pointed into the living room.
“Janelle’s parents bought the leather sofa.”
He opened his mouth.
“And the bar cabinet.”
He closed it again.
“When I sent you four thousand dollars because you said the roof was leaking over Mom’s bedroom, you told me you hired professionals.”
“I did.”
“No. You covered the stain with plaster.”
Lucas rubbed his forehead.
“You don’t understand how much responsibility we had here.”
Before I could answer, someone knocked softly.
Valerie stepped inside.
Seeing her after so many years stirred memories I wasn’t prepared for.
Before Denver, Valerie and I had been inseparable. We had grown up together, dated for years, and talked about building a life in Red Creek.
Then opportunity called me west.
Neither of us had betrayed the other. Life had simply pulled us in different directions.
But she had remained close to Mom.
She walked straight toward my mother and placed a paper bag on the table.
“Your blood pressure medicine, Miss Abigail.”
Mom gave her a grateful smile.
Then Valerie turned toward me.
“I think you need to see something.”
She handed me a metal document box.
Inside were receipts, medical reports, and hospital paperwork.
I picked up an emergency admission form.
The date was six months earlier.
I read the diagnosis twice because my mind refused to accept it the first time.
Severe malnutrition.
Hypertensive crisis.
My mother had collapsed.
She had been rushed to the hospital.
Six months earlier.
I remembered that week perfectly.
I had called Lucas from Denver.
“How’s Mom?”
“She’s just a little tired,” he had told me. “I’m handling everything. Don’t worry.”
My hands began shaking.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Valerie’s expression hardened.
“Your mother begged me not to.”
I turned toward Mom.
She looked down.
Valerie continued.
“She was terrified you would quit your job and come back here.”
My anger searched desperately for somewhere to land.
“Why didn’t you call me anyway?”
Valerie held my gaze.
“Don’t ask me why I didn’t call you, Brandon.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
“Ask yourself why, in ten years, you never checked who was actually taking your mother to the doctor.”
I stared at her.
There was no cruelty in her voice.
That made it worse.
She was right.
I had convinced myself that financial responsibility was the same thing as presence.
When Lucas said everything was fine, I believed him because believing him made it easier to remain in Denver.
I could work another late night.
Accept another promotion.
Miss another holiday.
After all, I was paying for everything.
Wasn’t I?
That excuse collapsed in front of me.
Later that evening, Mason called.
“The house is still legally yours,” he said.
Relief washed through me.
But only briefly.
“There’s more.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“Lucas contacted a legal aid clinic several months ago.”
My eyes moved toward the hallway.
“What about?”
“He wanted information about adverse possession and property claims based on maintenance and improvements.”
My stomach tightened.
“Maintenance on my house?”
“Yes.”
Mason paused.
“And I found something else.”
He emailed me a scanned document.
A power of attorney.
My mother’s name appeared near the bottom.
Her signature was shaky and uneven.
I brought the document to her.
“Mom, when did you sign this?”
She adjusted her glasses.
Confusion crossed her face.
“I don’t know.”
“Look carefully.”
She studied the page.
Then her eyes widened slightly.
“Lucas brought papers to me when I had that terrible fever.”
“What did he tell you they were?”
“Something for the clinic.”
My throat tightened.
“He said I needed to sign so they could manage some medical paperwork. I was dizzy. I just signed wherever he pointed.”
I found Lucas in the living room.
I placed the document in front of him.
“Were you taking care of Mom?”
He said nothing.
“Or were you preparing paperwork to take my house?”
His eyes dropped.
That silence was his confession.
The next afternoon, I called everyone to the dining room.
For the first time since returning, my mother sat at the large table.
I placed one plate in front of Lucas.
Cold canned beans.
Two stale biscuits.
A glass of water.
He stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Dinner.”
He pushed the plate away.
“Stop playing games.”
“Eat it.”
“What kind of ridiculous performance is this?”
I leaned toward him.
“It’s what Mom was eating downstairs while you served lobster upstairs.”
Janelle’s father, Mr. Miller, struck the table with his palm.
“That is enough!”
Everyone turned.
Mr. Miller was a man who seemed permanently offended by anything he considered beneath his status.
“Our family has invested tens of thousands of dollars improving this property,” he declared. “If you sell it, we expect reimbursement.”
Mason, who was sitting near the end of the table, calmly opened his briefcase.
“Excellent. Please provide the invoices.”
Mr. Miller blinked.
“What?”
“Receipts, contracts, payment confirmations, contractor information—anything showing the improvements your family funded.”
Mr. Miller eventually produced several papers.
They proved almost nothing.
Some were handwritten notes with no dates.
Others were vague receipts.
Several purchases had been delivered to different addresses entirely.
For the first time since I returned, Mr. Miller had no confident answer.
Lucas turned toward Mom.
He knew exactly where her weakness was.
“Tell him not to sell.”
Mom stiffened.
“If Brandon sells this house, Janelle will leave me. We’ll have nowhere to go.”
“Lucas,” I warned.
But he kept going.
“Do you really want your youngest son homeless?”
Mom’s hands began trembling.
Then, before I understood what she was doing, she slid from her chair.
Onto her knees.
In front of me.
“Brandon,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes, “please don’t sell the house. Do it for your brother.”
My heart cracked.
I immediately reached down and lifted her.
“Mom, don’t.”
She was frighteningly light in my arms.
“Please.”
I looked over her shoulder.
Lucas remained standing beside his chair.
He didn’t even step forward to help her.
I held my mother by the shoulders.
“You are asking me to protect the people who made you sleep beside a washing machine.”
She cried silently.
That night, I decided the house would be sold.
I thought nothing could change my mind.
Then, shortly before eleven, Mason sent another message.
Call me immediately.
My phone rang seconds later.
“I found Lucas’s construction claim.”
“What construction claim?”
“He submitted documents claiming approximately three hundred thousand dollars in structural improvements.”
I almost laughed from disbelief.
“Three hundred thousand?”
“If accepted, those claims could be used to argue for a significant financial interest in the property.”
“Mason, he didn’t do anything close to that amount.”
“I know.”
His voice became quieter.
“Because I checked the invoices.”
I sat down.
“They’re fraudulent, Brandon.”
For a moment, the room seemed unnaturally silent.
My brother had not merely taken money.
He had built a paper trail.
He had prepared legal documents.
He had lied to our mother.
He had tried to manufacture an ownership claim against the house.
And suddenly I understood that this was no longer simply a family argument.
It was fraud.
For illustrative purposes only
