“Officers,” he said, smiling. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding.”
Behind him, my mother closed the portfolio.
Chloe slipped the pocket watch into her handbag.
And as the first officer stepped inside, my father said something that made my blood turn cold.
“My daughter gave us permission to sell this apartment. If she says otherwise, she’s lying.”
Chapter 4 – THE WATCH THAT DIDN’T BELONG TO HIM
The officer didn’t argue with my father.
He simply asked him to step away from the doorway.
“Sir, we need to establish who owns this property and why you’re inside it.”
Richard straightened his jacket.
“I’m her father.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
My mother immediately began explaining that I was traveling in Europe, that the family had always handled important matters together, and that they were only trying to help me.
Chloe stood behind them with her arms crossed.
She looked less frightened than offended.
The officer asked to see the authorization documents.
My mother handed them over.
He examined the supposed power of attorney, then asked whether they had a copy of the original.
“We have the original at home,” she said.
“Then we’ll need to verify it.”
My father sighed.
“This is absurd.”
The officer ignored him and asked for the property owner’s contact information.
My mother gave him my number.
I answered on the second ring.
“Clara Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Harris with the Boston Police Department. Are you currently outside the country?”
“No, officer. I’m in Boston.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “Are your parents authorized to enter your apartment or arrange a sale?”
“No.”
“Have you given anyone permission to change your locks?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize the documents they presented?”
“No. I believe they’re forged.”
I heard my father speak in the background.
“She’s confused. She’s been under tremendous stress.”
Officer Harris turned away from him.
“Miss Bennett, do you have proof of ownership available?”
“I can send you the recorded deed and the probate documents confirming that my grandfather left me the apartment.”
“Please do that.”
I sent the files immediately.
Within minutes, the officer had confirmed that I was the registered owner.
He asked my parents why they had entered the property.
My father claimed they had used an old key because they believed the apartment needed to be secured.
My mother said they were concerned about my finances.
Chloe said nothing.
Then Officer Harris asked a question none of them seemed prepared for.
“Why was a locksmith called if you already had a working key?”
My father opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The locksmith, who had remained in the hallway after the argument, answered for him.
“They told me the owner was overseas and they needed to change the locks before a realtor arrived. I declined to proceed because I couldn’t verify their authorization.”
Officer Harris nodded.
“Thank you. Please leave us your contact information.”
My father glared at him.
“This is a private family matter.”
“Once we receive a complaint involving possible forged documents and unauthorized entry, it may no longer be private.”
My mother began crying.
It was a familiar performance.
When I was seventeen and refused to give Chloe my savings for a school trip, my mother had cried at the dinner table until my father told me I was destroying the family.
When I was twenty-four and declined to co-sign a loan for Chloe’s failed business, she cried for three days.
Now she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“We’re only trying to save our daughter.”
I stared at the screen.
Which daughter?
The thought came so quickly that it almost hurt.
I was their daughter, too.
Officer Harris asked my parents to remain in the apartment while he documented the scene.
He then asked Chloe to empty her handbag onto the dining table.
She looked at him in disbelief.
“Why?”
“Because the camera footage shows you removing an object from the bedroom that may belong to the owner.”
Chloe’s face changed.
My grandfather’s watch emerged from her handbag.
She placed it on the table with exaggerated care.
“I was keeping it safe.”
“Did Clara give you permission to take it?”
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
It was also the first honest thing I had heard from her all morning.
Officer Harris photographed the watch and asked whether it had any identifying features.
I spoke through the phone.
“The back cover has an inscription. My grandfather’s initials are engraved inside, along with the year he received it.”
The officer opened the watch carefully.
A small brass plate was attached to the inner lid.
It read:
- BENNETT — 1968
Beneath the plate was a folded strip of paper.
My father lunged forward.
“Don’t touch that!”
Officer Harris immediately moved between him and the table.
“Sir, step back.”
My father stopped.
