Chapter 3 - THE SCHEME UNRAVELED
By 7:30 PM, the legal papers were signed, stamped, and officially sealed under the heavy metal press of Mr. Vance’s notary commission.
The house was sold. The title transfer was registered with the Franklin County Clerk’s office for processing. On Friday morning at 9:00 AM, the new owners—a young couple with twin toddlers—would take physical possession of the keys.
Brandon, Mary, Wyatt, and I drove back to the house in silence.
Wyatt was sitting in the back seat, happily eating an ice cream cone that Brandon had bought him on the way home, completely oblivious to the war that had broken out in his family. My mother sat beside him, quietly looking out the window at the passing streetlights of suburban Columbus.
When we pulled into our driveway, we noticed a silver Honda civic parked near the garage.
It was Spencer's car.
The front porch light was on. Inside the house, the living room lights were blazing, and through the wide bay window, I could see two figures moving around: Gertrude and her younger son, Spencer.
"Stay in the car for a minute, Mom," I said gently to Mary. "Wyatt, stay with Grandma."
Brandon and I stepped out of the car, our shoes clicking rhythmically against the concrete walkway. Brandon unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
The scene inside the house was unbelievable.
Gertrude and Spencer were sitting at our dining table, surrounded by takeout boxes from an expensive steakhouse. Spencer—a thirty-two-year-old man who hadn't held a steady job in four years—was leaning back in my husband's favorite armchair, sipping scotch from Brandon's crystal whiskey glasses.
On the table next to their plates was a thick blue folder labeled Property Tax Assessment & Estate Transfer.
They hadn't even noticed the broken chain sitting on the kitchen counter yet.
"Oh! You're back," Gertrude said smoothly, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin without even standing up. She didn't look at me; her eyes went straight to Brandon. "Brandon, son, you need to tell your wife to stop buying cheap store-brand rice. Spencer and I had to order dinner from The Prime Rib because there was nothing edible in this house."
Spencer smirked, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "Hey, big bro. Mind if I borrow your golf clubs this weekend? Me and a couple of guys are heading down to Cincinnati."
Brandon stood in the center of the foyer, his coat still on, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. He looked at his mother, then at his brother, then down at the blue folder sitting on the table.
"What is that folder, Spencer?" Brandon asked, his voice disturbingly calm.
Spencer coughed slightly, looking over at Gertrude.
Gertrude cleared her throat, adjusting her silver cardigan. "Well, Brandon, since we're all family here, I thought it was time we had a serious talk about the future of this property. Spencer is trying to get his life back on track. He needs a stable address to apply for a business loan, and frankly, this house is far too big for just you, Abigail, and Wyatt."
I let out a soft, amused hum from the doorway, leaning against the frame with my arms crossed. "Go on, Gertrude. Please finish your thought."
Gertrude glared at me with pure disdain. "I wasn't talking to you, Abigail. I'm talking to my son."
She turned back to Brandon, her voice turning fake-sweet, dripping with manipulative affection.
"Brandon, honey... you know I gave Spencer all my money from my house sale three years ago. It was a sacrifice a mother makes. But now Spencer needs a leg up. I was thinking... since Mary is clearly moving in here permanently—"
"Mary is visiting for six days," Brandon interrupted coldly.
"Oh, please! I saw her bags! She brought dried beans and corundas! That's how rural people move in!" Gertrude snapped, waving her hand dismissively. "Anyway, my plan is simple. You and Abigail can take over the downstairs suite, Spencer can move into the upper two bedrooms, and we can refile the deed under a family trust so that Spencer has equity. That way, when anything happens to me, the house stays in the Bennett family name—where it belongs!"
I couldn't help it. A loud, ringing laugh escaped my throat.
Spencer stood up from the armchair, his face flushing dark red. "What's so funny, Abigail? You think it's funny that a family wants to protect its wealth?"
"Wealth?" I asked, stepping closer to the dining table. "Spencer, you haven't paid taxes in three years. You owe forty thousand dollars to credit card companies, and your mom gave you her entire life savings which you drank and gambled away in under eighteen months! What 'wealth' are you talking about?"
"Shut your mouth!" Gertrude yelled, slamming her hand onto the table. "You brought your penniless, farm-hand mother into my son's house to eat his food! You have no say in how this family manages its assets!"
Brandon walked slowly over to the table. He picked up the blue Estate Transfer folder that Spencer had brought, looked at the forged signatures on the draft deed, and ripped it completely in half.
Tear.
Tear.
He dropped the shredded pieces directly into Spencer's half-eaten steak box.
"Hey! What the hell, Brandon?!" Spencer yelled, jumping to his feet.
"Get out of my house, Spencer," Brandon said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl.
Gertrude gasped, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the floorboards. "Brandon! How dare you speak to your brother like that! I am your mother! I live here!"
May you like
"Not anymore," Brandon said.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the notarized Notice to Vacate and Trespass Warning drafted by Mr. Vance, and slapped it flat onto the center of the dining table.
