“It’s my home,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. My hands were trembling, but I didn’t let them see just how much I was shaking. “George and I built it. The deed is in my name.”
Tara leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine as if we were discussing wallpaper instead of my entire life. Her smile wasn’t warm or gentle; it was the kind that showed she knew she had the upper hand.
“Yeah, about that,” she said, tilting her head. “You might want to check your mail sometime.”
My heart thudded. “What are you talking about?”
She reached for her phone. “Well, while you were busy crying over old photo albums, I’ve been handling things — you know, helping.”
“What things?” I asked, although I already felt the pit opening under me.
“Mail, bills, boring stuff,” she said lightly. “You never read any of it, so I started managing it. You’d be surprised how easy it is to redirect mail. You just fill out a form.”
I stared at her, trying to understand what she had done.
“I paid the mortgage,” she said. “With your account, of course. Handled the taxes. Forged a few things — nothing crazy. The kind of stuff families do for each other.”
“That’s fraud,” I said, my voice cracking.
She gave a lazy shrug. “Only if someone finds out.”
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