“There’s nothing left for us to discuss.”
“You can’t throw us onto the street.”
“I’m not throwing you anywhere.”
“Then what exactly do you call this?”
“A change in legal ownership.”
Kristen gave a harsh, humorless laugh.
“You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?”
I lowered my eyes to my hands.
My knuckles were thick, covered with old scars from decades spent working.
Those hands had signed thousands of payroll checks.
They had carried heavy timber, supported grieving friends, and held my husband’s fingers while cancer slowly stole his life.
Those hands had built the comfortable world Trevor inhabited.
Yet they had never once been raised to strike my son.
“No,” I answered.
“This gives me no pleasure.
I’m simply bringing something to an end.”
Trevor muttered a curse.
“Who purchased the property?”
“That information doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me when people I’ve never met are standing inside my entrance hall, telling Kristen we’ve got thirty days to leave!”
“Then I suggest you treat them courteously.”
Kristen practically shrieked.
“Thirty days?
Gloria, have you any idea what this is going to do to our social standing?”
That sentence told me everything.
She wasn’t worried about the emotional damage.
She wasn’t asking what would happen to our family.
She wasn’t even primarily concerned about the financial consequences.
She was worried about how people would perceive her.
I shut my eyes briefly.
There was the truth, exposed without its usual polite disguise.
“You should have thought about those consequences yesterday evening,” I replied.
Trevor’s voice softened.
“Mom.
I screwed up.”
“No.
Taking the wrong exit is screwing up.
Forgetting a meeting is screwing up.
You struck your own mother thirty times while your wife and your dinner guests watched.”
“You actually counted?”
“Yes.”
That one word hung between us with the weight of a weapon waiting to be fired.
“I lost my temper,” he said.
“So did I.”
“You provoked me.”
“I reminded you who provided the roof above your head.”
“That’s what you always do!
You use your money to control me!”
“No, Trevor.
What I’ve done is conceal the truth from you.
Those are two entirely different things.”
Behind his voice, I could hear the ordinary noises of his workplace.
Telephones ringing.
A printer operating.
Someone laughing somewhere in the background, completely unaware that my son’s carefully constructed existence was collapsing beneath fluorescent office lights.
Then Trevor made his next threat.
“I’m taking you to court.”
Howard’s lips curved into the faintest smile.
“You’re free to attempt it.
Howard Pierce is sitting directly opposite me, and he examined every legal document before the transaction was completed.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No.”
“Do you think this proves you’re some kind of powerful woman?”
I glanced at the blue folder and the fresh ink beside my signature.
“No.
It proves I should have stopped shielding you from consequences a long time ago.”
I disconnected the call.
Silence filled the conference room.
Howard removed his glasses and carefully polished the lenses with a white handkerchief.
“He isn’t going to leave you alone,” he warned.
“I’m aware of that.”
“He has no legal claim to the house.”
“I’m aware of that too.”
“People who are furious don’t always choose legal methods first.”
“And neither do people who are terrified.”
Howard acknowledged that with a brief nod.
Then he reached for another folder.
“Gloria, there’s another matter you ought to know about.”
He pushed a bundle of documents across the polished conference table.
Initially, I assumed they were additional papers related to the sale.
Then I examined the first sheet.
Banking records.
Credit reports.
Summaries of outstanding loans.
Kristen’s name appeared repeatedly throughout the paperwork.
So did Trevor’s.
There were revolving credit accounts, private financing agreements, luxury automobile installments, jewelry purchases financed through lenders, and an application for a second mortgage that had been denied because the applicants didn’t legally own the property.
There was also a business loan Trevor had personally guaranteed for a new company that, judging by its financial records, appeared to consist of little more than arrogance and imaginary profits.
“What am I looking at?”
I asked.
“Documents my staff obtained after you requested an investigation into potential liabilities involving Cedarline.”
I began turning the pages.
The figures were terrible.
No, terrible wasn’t the right word.
They were catastrophic.
“They’re insolvent,” Howard said.
My son was living inside a mansion worth seven million dollars while having virtually no money.
“How long has this been happening?”
“Eighteen months at the very least.
They’ve been turning their public image into a source of credit.
Lavish parties, influential acquaintances, promises of future wealth.
Trevor has repeatedly told people that he controls substantial real estate holdings belonging to the family.”
I raised my head.
“He’s been trading on my name?”
