Chapter 3 - The Bill of Sale
The conference room on the forty-second floor of the corporate tower was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the scratching of a high-end fountain pen. Arthur Vance sat across from me, his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead, his face grim as he reviewed the corporate seals for Redwood Capital LLC.
"Tariq didn't even hesitate, Franklin," Arthur said, sliding a thick stack of legal documents across the polished glass table. "His legal team in New York reviewed the title history within fifteen minutes. They verified that Redwood Capital holds the property fee-simple, with no outstanding liens, no mortgages, and no encumbrances. The wire transfer has already been initiated from Chase Private Client. It’s currently clearing the Federal Reserve system."
I picked up the pen. My right hand was steady, the skin across my knuckles tight.
"Sign here, here, and here," Arthur indicated, pointing his finger at the signature blocks for the Special Warranty Deed. "By signing these, you are executing the transfer of ownership from Redwood Capital LLC to the Al-Mansoor Family Trust. You are also signing an affidavit confirming that there are no tenant leases or lawful occupants with legal rights to the property."
"There are no tenants," I said, my voice firm as the pen met the paper. "There are only guests who have overstayed their welcome."
With three quick strokes of my hand, the property at 1422 River Oaks Boulevard ceased to have anything to do with the Reeves family name. Five point eight million dollars was currently moving through cyberspace, destined for an account that Brandon didn't even know existed.
"What about their personal property?" Arthur asked, leaning back and looking at me through narrowed eyes. "The clothes, the jewelry, the vehicles? Technically, the contract includes the fixtures and the furniture, but their personal belongings aren't covered. Tariq’s representatives stated that their security team will be at the property by 1:00 PM to change the locks and secure the perimeter."
"Brandon’s at his office on Post Oak," I said, checking my old steel wristwatch. It was 11:45 AM. "He doesn't leave for lunch until noon. Amber has her weekly tennis club luncheon at the Houston Country Club from eleven to one. The house is empty right now."
"Franklin," Arthur said softly, his voice losing its professional detachment for a moment. "You know this is going to destroy him. Financially, he’s leveraged to the hilt. I know for a fact he took out a two-hundred-thousand-dollar signature loan last month using his 'equity' in that house as his background asset for the bank. He told the bank he owned it through a family trust."
I let out a short, dry laugh that sent a sharp pain through my split lip. "Then he committed bank fraud, Arthur. Because he never owned a single brick of that house. He wanted to live like a king on another man’s labor? Now he gets to see what happens when the real world calls the loan."
Before Arthur could reply, the heavy double doors of the conference room opened, and his senior paralegal walked in, carrying a tablet.
"Mr. Vance," she said, looking between us with a tense expression. "The wire has cleared. Five million, eight hundred thousand dollars has been deposited into the escrow account for Redwood Capital. The title company has just filed the electronic deed with the Harris County Clerk’s office. The sale is officially public record."
"Thank you, Sarah," Arthur said. He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "It's done, Franklin. You are no longer the owner of 1422 River Oaks."
I stood up, adjusting the collar of my denim shirt. The physical ache in my face was still there, but inside, I felt a deep, profound sense of stillness. The ledger was balanced. The thirty slaps had been paid for at a rate of nearly two hundred thousand dollars apiece.
As I walked out of the office toward the elevator bank, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out.
The digital screen displayed Brandon’s name, accompanied by a picture of him smiling on a golf course—a picture taken back when he still pretended to respect the man who paid his green fees.
I stood in the carpeted elevator lobby, watching the floor numbers count down from forty-two. I didn't answer it on the first ring. I waited until the second, then the third, letting the vibration fill my palm before I finally slid the green button across the glass.
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"Dad?" Brandon’s voice came through the line, but the arrogant, deep baritone from the night before was entirely gone. It was replaced by a high, frantic pitch that sounded like a boy who had just gotten lost in a crowded store. "Dad, where are you? You need to call your lawyer right now. Something insane is happening at the house."
"I'm downtown, Brandon," I said, my voice perfectly calm as the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. "What's the matter?"
