Chapter 3 - THE TICKET IN THE TRASH
"Where are they sending you, Lily?" I demanded, pressing the phone so hard against my ear it hurt.
"I don't know," she cried, her voice muffled as if she were hiding in a closet. "I heard Mom yelling at Dad. She said I'm a liability. She said they're taking me to some wilderness camp in Utah for 'troubled teens' so I can't talk to anyone. Grandma, she took my phone, I'm using Dad's old iPad—"
"Listen to me," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a low, fierce whisper I hadn't used since Michael was a teenager running with the wrong crowd. "Lock your bedroom door. Push your dresser against it. Do not let them in. I am five minutes away."
I didn't wait for her to answer. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and ran out the back door.
I drove Frank’s old Volvo like a madwoman. I ran two stop signs. I didn't care. The image of my fourteen-year-old granddaughter being dragged out of her home and shipped across the country to silence her made my blood boil.
I pulled up to Michael and Tara’s sprawling, overpriced suburban house. The house they couldn't afford. The house they were trying to save by tearing down mine.
Michael's SUV wasn't in the driveway. Only Tara's white Lexus.
I didn't bother knocking. I used the spare key Michael had given me years ago—a key I had never once used to intrude on their lives.
The heavy front door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang.
"Lily!" I shouted, stepping into the massive, echoing foyer.
"Joan?" Tara appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase.
She was wearing expensive yoga pants and a cashmere sweater, looking every bit the perfect suburban mother. But her face was pale, and her eyes were frantic.
"What are you doing here?" Tara snapped, marching down the stairs. "You shouldn't be driving. You're confused again."
"Cut the act, Tara," I said, stepping toward her. I didn't look like a confused old woman. I looked like a mother who had found a wolf in her house. "Where is my granddaughter?"
Tara crossed her arms, her diamond wedding band catching the light. "Lily is having a severe behavioral episode. She's been lying, acting out, and causing family drama. We are handling it as her parents."
"You're silencing her because she caught you and Michael stealing my house," I spat.
Tara let out a sharp, condescending laugh. "Stealing? Joan, you belong in a home. We're doing you a favor. The paperwork is done. The LLC owns the property. You have no legal standing."
"I have the county clerk looking into David Vance right now," I bluffed.
Tara flinched. It was a micro-expression, just a tiny tightening of her jaw, but I saw it.
"Get out of my house, Joan. Before I call the police and have you trespassed."
"Call them," I challenged, pulling my phone from my purse. "Let's show them the forged deed. Let's show them the doctor's note you faked. Let's get the police right here in your beautiful foyer."
Tara hesitated. She didn't reach for her phone.
"Grandma!"
I looked up. Lily was standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a battered red backpack. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror.
"Lily, come down here," I said, my voice softening instantly. "You're coming home with me."
"She is absolutely not," Tara snarled, stepping in front of the staircase to block my path. "She is my daughter."
"And you're a monster," I said, stepping so close to Tara I could smell her expensive vanilla perfume. "Move. Or I swear to God, Tara, I will drag you down these stairs myself."
For a second, I think Tara realized she was looking at a woman who had nothing left to lose. She stepped aside.
Lily ran down the stairs and practically collapsed into my arms. She was shaking like a leaf. I wrapped my arms tightly around her, glaring at my daughter-in-law over the top of her head.
"If Michael wants to speak to me, he can call my lawyer," I said.
I led Lily out the door. As we walked to the car, Lily kept looking back over her shoulder, terrified Tara would follow us.
Once we were safely in the Volvo and driving away, Lily unzipped her backpack. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely work the zipper.
"I didn't just pack clothes, Grandma," Lily whispered.
She pulled out a crumpled, heavy paper from her bag. "When Mom was yelling at Dad, I snuck into his home office to get my charger. I found this in his trash can."
I pulled the car over to the side of the road, putting it in park. I took the crumpled paper from her.
It was a printed receipt from a pawn shop downtown.
But it wasn't for jewelry or electronics. It was a receipt for a gold, engraved pocket watch.
Frank’s pocket watch.
The one he had inherited from his grandfather. The one he had explicitly left to Michael in his will.
I stared at the paper. Why would Michael pawn his own father’s most prized heirloom for a miserable $800?
Then I looked closer at the date on the receipt.
It was dated fourteen months ago.
"Lily," I breathed, my heart sinking. "This wasn't about the house. This has been happening for a long time."
Before Lily could answer, my phone buzzed. It was Ellen.
"Joan," my sister said, her voice tight with urgency. "The lawyer pulled the LLC documents for Oakwood Holdings. You need to sit down."
"I am sitting. What is it?"
"Michael isn't the owner of the LLC," Ellen said. "Tara is. But she has a business partner listed."
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"Who?"
"David Vance," Ellen said. "The notary who signed your fake deed."
