Chapter 2 - The Signature On The Deed
I stood frozen in the driveway as the officer pulled the yellow manila folder from Mason's jacket.
The flashing red and blue lights painted my cousin’s pale, sweating face. Mason wasn’t just a guest; he was my mother’s favorite nephew, a man who always seemed to need a loan. Now, he was caught sneaking out the front door while my mother screamed at the cops in the back.
The officer opened the folder and shined his flashlight on the thick stack of papers.
"Mr. Bradley," the officer said, his voice tight. "Are you aware your home was recently transferred into a trust?"
"That's impossible," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "My wife and I hold the deed."
The officer handed me the top page. It was a Quitclaim Deed. It transferred the sole ownership of our Nashville home directly to Teresa Bradley, my mother. But that wasn’t what made the blood drain from my face.
At the bottom of the page, right next to my own forged signature, was Amy’s signature.
It wasn't a sloppy forgery. It was perfect. The loop of the 'A', the slight slant of the 'y'—it was unmistakably my wife’s handwriting.
"She signed it," Mason sneered from his handcuffs, spitting on my driveway. "Your little dishwasher gave it away willingly, Connor. Ask her why."
I looked back at the ambulance where paramedics were loading Frederick. Amy was climbing in behind him, looking terrified and fragile. Had she betrayed me? Was she manipulated?
I flipped to the second page to see the notary stamp. The breath left my lungs.
The notary was David Miller. My boss. The man who had given me time off today.
Why would my boss help my mother and my wife steal my house?
Before I could process it, the officer pulled a smaller, folded document from the very back of Mason’s folder.
"There's something else here," the cop muttered, adjusting his glasses.
He unfolded it. It wasn't about the house.
May you like
It was a life insurance policy. For one million dollars.
And the insured name was Frederick Bradley, my one-year-old son.
