The next afternoon, after the worst of the storm passed, Vivian’s attorney arrived. Mr. Callaway brought three folders.
The first contained the trust documents. The second held my father’s insurance records, including every unauthorized withdrawal Roy had made. The third made my hands turn cold.
Eighteen months earlier, Roy had applied for a $35,000 loan using the house as collateral. On the application, he signed a sworn statement claiming he owned the property. Beneath his signature was my mother’s name as co-signer—but the signature didn’t match hers.
Callaway placed her verified signature beside it. The real Diane Palmer Lester wrote with a looping D and a sharp forward slant. The loan signature was flat and careful. A copy. A forgery—or something close enough to be dangerous.
“So he stole the insurance money,” I said. “Then tried to borrow against a house he didn’t own.”
“And possibly forged your mother’s signature,” Callaway added.
For the first time since Roy entered my life, I saw him clearly—not as a strict stepfather, not as a man maintaining order, but as a thief hiding behind family language.
Then my phone rang.
Roy.
I let it ring before answering.
“Frances,” he said calmly. “I received a letter from a lawyer. I don’t know what game you and that old woman are playing, but you need to come home.”
Home. The word almost made me laugh.
“You locked me outside during a hurricane,” I said.
“You walked out.”
“My mother watched you lock the door.”
Silence. Then his voice shifted—just slightly.
“You owe me,” he said. “I fed you. I raised you. That house stayed standing because of me.”
