PART 2 — The House That Was Never Theirs
The black SUV disappeared around the corner before I could read its license plate.
Hannah never took her eyes off it.
Her fingers dug into my sleeve.
"They've seen us."
I turned toward her.
"How many times have you seen that vehicle?"
She swallowed.
"Too many."
"Sometimes it sits across the street from the shelter."
"Sometimes outside the soup kitchen."
"I thought I was imagining it."
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
If someone had been watching her, this wasn't simply about a stolen house anymore.
Someone wanted to know exactly where she was.
And why.
I took Hannah to the nearest twenty-four-hour café.
The waitress didn't ask questions when she saw Hannah's worn clothes.
She simply brought hot coffee and the biggest breakfast on the menu.
Hannah stared at the food for several seconds before quietly asking,
"Are you sure?"
I smiled.
"I'm very sure."
She picked up the fork carefully, eating slowly, almost apologetically.
No one should ever apologize for being hungry.
Watching my wife eat as though every bite might be her last broke something inside me.
After breakfast, I called my assistant.
"Melissa."
There was a pause before she answered.
"Nathan?"
"I need a favor."
"Anything."
"I need every meeting canceled."
"You have the board presentation at ten."
"Cancel it."
"The investors from New York—"
"They can wait."
She immediately understood something was wrong.
"I'll clear your schedule."
"Thank you."
"And Melissa..."
"Yes?"
"Don't tell anyone where I am."
Another pause.
"Not even Luke?"
"Especially not Luke."
Our next stop was St. Vincent Medical Center.
Not because Hannah asked.
Because I insisted.
She protested the entire drive.
"I've already had enough hospitals."
"I know."
"But I need to know you're okay."
The emergency physician examined her for nearly two hours.
Blood tests.
X-rays.
A nutritional assessment.
When the doctor finally entered the consultation room, his expression was serious.
"Mrs. Ellis is suffering from severe malnutrition."
He turned another page.
"Her old injuries also healed improperly."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"She needed physical therapy."
"Consistent therapy."
Hannah quietly looked at the floor.
The doctor continued.
"Whoever handled her medical care stopped treatment far too early."
My jaw tightened.
"Could that cause permanent damage?"
He nodded.
"In some cases."
I closed my eyes.
Luke hadn't only stolen our property.
He had stolen her recovery.
When the doctor left, Hannah reached into her backpack again.
"There are more papers."
She handed me another envelope.
Inside were letters.
Every one addressed to me.
None had ever been opened.
I recognized Hannah's handwriting immediately.
The first letter was dated almost three years earlier.
Nathan,
Luke says you're too busy to answer calls.
I know you're working hard.
I miss you every day.
Please don't worry.
I'm getting stronger.
My hands trembled.
The second letter was different.
Nathan,
They say we have to sell the house.
I don't understand why.
Luke promised you approved it.
Could you please call me?
Just once.
The third letter ended with a sentence that made my chest ache.
I hope you still believe I'm worth coming home to.
I couldn't read another word.
"Why didn't they reach me?"
I asked quietly.
Hannah gave a tired smile.
"I found them."
"What?"
"They never mailed them."
She pointed toward the envelope.
"Claire kept them in a kitchen drawer."
"I took them when they forced me out."
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then Hannah whispered,
"I knew someday you'd need the truth."
By noon, we arrived at the house.
Or what used to be our house.
The white Victorian home still stood exactly where we had left it.
The maple tree I planted on our first anniversary had doubled in size.
The blue shutters Hannah painted herself were still there.
Only one thing had changed.
Someone else's family lived inside.
Children's bicycles rested in the driveway.
A golden retriever slept beneath the porch swing.
Hannah stared through the windshield.
"I couldn't bring myself to come back."
I reached for her hand.
"You don't have to."
But before we could leave, the front door opened.
A woman stepped outside carrying groceries.
She noticed us immediately.
I lowered my window.
"Excuse me."
She smiled politely.
"Can I help you?"
"My name is Nathan Ellis."
Confusion crossed her face.
"I... used to own this house."
Her smile disappeared.
"Oh."
She looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't know."
"It's alright."
"I just wanted to ask..."
"Who sold it to you?"
The woman hesitated.
"A real estate company."
"Lakeview Property Holdings."
"I never met the previous owners."
She thought for a moment.
"But..."
"What?"
"There was something strange."
My pulse quickened.
"The closing kept getting delayed."
"Why?"
"They said there were issues with medical documents."
She frowned.
"I remember because my husband joked we'd never get the keys."
Medical documents.
Why would a home sale require medical records?
Unless...
Someone had claimed Hannah was incapable of handling her own affairs.
As we drove away, I called our longtime family attorney.
"Robert."
His warm voice answered immediately.
"Nathan!"
"You're finally home."
"I need to ask you something."
"Of course."
"Did you ever handle the sale of my house?"
Silence.
"What sale?"
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
"Our house."
"It was sold two years ago."
Robert sounded genuinely shocked.
"Nathan..."
"I've never seen those documents."
"I wasn't even informed."
Every property transaction I'd ever completed had gone through Robert.
Every single one.
Except this one.
Half an hour later, Robert met us at his office.
He examined the photocopies Hannah had saved.
Within minutes his expression darkened.
"These aren't right."
"What do you mean?"
He pointed toward the notary seal.
"This commission expired six months before these documents were supposedly signed."
Hannah looked up.
"So..."
Robert nodded slowly.
"The paperwork appears fraudulent."
He carefully flipped another page.
Then another.
Finally he stopped.
His face lost all color.
"Nathan..."
I looked at him.
"There's something you need to see."
He slid one document across the desk.
It wasn't a deed.
It wasn't a mortgage.
It was a court order.
At the top, in bold letters, were the words:
PETITION FOR TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP
The petitioner wasn't Luke.
It wasn't Claire.
It was someone neither Hannah nor I expected to see.
My own father.
And according to the filing...
He had declared my wife mentally incompetent just six weeks after her accident.
I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page.
There was only one problem.
My father had died...
Almost five years before that document was supposedly signed.
Someone hadn't just stolen our house.
May you like
Someone had forged a dead man's name.
And that changed everything.
