Chapter 4: The Call He Thought Would Work
"I want to talk," Walter said.
No apology.
No question about the baby.
Just that.
"I'm listening," I said.
"What happened this morning — that was a misunderstanding.
Things got heated.
I shouldn't have—" He stopped.
Reset.
"The point is, we're family.
And I think we both said things we didn't mean."
I hadn't said anything.
I had refused to sign a piece of paper and ended up on my knees on my own porch.
But I didn't say that.
"What do you want, Dad?"
"I want to come to an agreement.
The house is too large for one person and a newborn.
I've already spoken to the buyer — they're still interested.
We split the proceeds fairly, you take your share, you start fresh somewhere smaller.
Everyone walks away clean."
"Owen left me that house."
"Owen left you a mortgage and a property tax bill and a yard you can't maintain alone.
I'm trying to help you be practical."
"Like you helped me this morning?"
Silence.
Then: "That won't happen again."
"You're right," I said.
"It won't."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
I could hear Tatum's voice somewhere in the background, low and impatient.
"Nadia." His voice shifted.
Softer now.
The voice I remembered from childhood, the one he used when he wanted something and had decided warmth was the faster route.
"You just had a baby.
You're exhausted.
You're grieving.
You're not thinking clearly.
Let me come to the hospital.
Let's talk face to face."
"No."
"I'm your father."
"I know who you are."
The softness left his voice like a light switching off.
"You're making a mistake," he said.
"You think that lawyer of Owen's is going to protect you?
He's an estate attorney.
He handles paperwork.
He's not equipped for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"Contested proceedings.
A competency evaluation.
You're a widow, eight months — you just gave birth, you're clearly under significant emotional strain.
A judge takes one look at the circumstances and suddenly the question of whether you're fit to manage a substantial estate on your own becomes very reasonable."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"You'd do that," I said.
"You'd actually do that."
"I'm telling you what's possible.
I'm telling you before it becomes necessary." He paused.
"Sign the listing agreement, Nadia.
Take your half.
Walk away while it's still friendly."
I looked at Richard, who was watching me from the chair.
I hadn't put the call on speaker.
I didn't need to.
I would tell him every word.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Good." The warmth came back, instant and hollow.
"That's all I'm asking.
Think about it.
I'll call tomorrow."
He ended the call.
Richard leaned forward.
"What did he say?"
I told him.
All of it.
The competency angle.
The threat dressed as concern.
The buyer still waiting.
Richard was quiet for a moment.
Then he picked up his own phone.
"He just told us exactly which direction he's planning to move," he said.
"That's actually helpful."
"He threatened to have me declared unfit."
"He floated the idea to frighten you.
There's a difference." Richard was already typing.
"But we're going to make sure he can't get anywhere near that option."
"How?"
"By moving first." He looked up.
"Can you be ready to sign some documents tomorrow morning?"
I looked at Nora, asleep against my arm, her small mouth open, her fingers curled into a loose fist.
"Yes," I said.
Richard nodded and went back to his phone.
I watched the door.
Somewhere out there, Walter was already planning his next call, his next angle, his next version of reasonable.
He didn't know that Owen had already thought of him.
Had already built the walls.
May you like
Had already left me the key.
What Walter didn't know yet was that one of those cameras had caught something else entirely — something that had nothing to do with that Tuesday morning, and everything to do with why Owen had gone to see Richard six weeks before the accident.
