Chapter 6: The House
Patricia let me read the deed twice before she said anything.
The paper was a certified copy — pulled from county records the previous evening by the hospital's legal team.
The address was the hilltop house I had grown up in.
The one with the immaculate rooms and the luxury real estate presentation.
The one where they were converting my bedroom into a home gym.
My name was on the deed.
Not as a co-owner.
As the sole owner of record.
"This can't be right," I said.
"It's been verified," Patricia said.
"The deed was filed eleven years ago, when you were twelve.
Your father's signature is on it, along with Gerald Foss as the witnessing party."
"Why would he put the house in my name?"
"That's the question." She took the folder back.
"The working theory — and this is still early — is that the property was transferred to avoid a creditor action.
Eleven years ago, your father's primary investment company was under a federal audit.
Placing assets in a minor child's name is a known method of shielding them."
"He used me to hide the house."
"It appears so.
And then, when the audit resolved and the risk passed, he simply — didn't transfer it back." She paused.
"Which means the house has been legally yours for eleven years.
The renovations they're planning.
The home gym.
Every decision they've made about that property since you were twelve."
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
"Gerald Foss," I said.
"He's the one Brenda messaged."
"Yes.
We believe she contacted him to determine whether the deed could be quietly transferred before you became aware of it.
The message she sent — 'Destroy it' — may have been referring to a copy of the deed that Foss held in your father's private files."
"Can they do that?
Transfer it without my signature?"
"No," Patricia said flatly.
"Not legally.
Not without your consent and a notarized transfer agreement.
Which is why she needed Foss to move quickly — before you had legal representation."
I looked at my hands.
The IV line ran from the back of my left hand to the bag above the bed.
The incision beneath my ribs pulled with every breath.
Twelve years old.
I had been twelve years old, eating at the far end of the table, receiving birthday cards late, watching Alyssa open gifts I was never offered — and the entire time, the house had been mine.
"I want to see my father," I said.
Patricia's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened.
"That's your right.
I would recommend waiting until—"
"I want to see him today."
She studied me for a moment.
Then she nodded once and closed the folder.
Charles arrived two hours later.
He came without Brenda — she was, Patricia had confirmed, currently being questioned at the precinct.
He came without his attorney, which surprised me until I realized it was a calculated move.
Coming alone looked like remorse.
Coming with a lawyer looked like defense.
He sat in the chair by my bed.
He didn't look at the garbage bag, which was still in the corner where the officer had left it.
"I didn't know about the lab results," he said.
"I know."
He blinked.
He had expected a fight.
"That doesn't change what you did," I said.
"You came in here with a garbage bag.
You told me I was useless.
You told me not to come home."
"I was—" He stopped.
Started again.
"Brenda had been telling me for weeks that you were planning to make demands after the surgery.
That you'd use the donation as leverage to insert yourself into the family finances."
"And you believed her."
"I thought—" He looked at his hands.
"I thought I was protecting the family."
"From me," I said.
"You were protecting the family from me.
Your own daughter."
He didn't answer.
"The house," I said.
His head came up.
"Patricia showed me the deed this morning." I kept my voice level.
"I've owned it since I was twelve.
You put it in my name to hide it from a federal audit, and then you forgot to take it back.
Or you didn't bother."
The color left his face the same way it had when Dr.
Miller mentioned the camera — quickly, completely, like water draining from a glass.
"That was—" He stopped.
"Eleven years," I said.
"I lived in my own house and you made me feel like a guest."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
May you like
"What do you want?" he asked.
It was the most honest question he had ever asked me.
