CHAPTER 2 — THE PRICE OF BLOOD
CHAPTER 2 — THE PRICE OF BLOOD
Liam never answered Eleanor's insults the way she wanted.
He would simply smile, wipe his hands on an old shop towel, and ask if anyone needed help carrying groceries inside.
That only seemed to make her hate him more.
Because Liam exposed something none of us wanted to admit.
A man without money could still possess dignity.
And people with plenty could be completely bankrupt inside.
The last family dinner before everything fell apart happened exactly three months before Maya was born.
It was my father's birthday.
Even after his death, I still brought flowers to his grave every year.
So did Liam.
Eleanor never came.
Instead, she insisted everyone gather at the house afterward "to celebrate Richard's life."
Celebrate.
The word tasted bitter.
The dining table was covered with expensive food Vanessa had ordered from a catering company.
Roasted prime rib.
Imported cheeses.
Wine that cost more than our weekly grocery budget.
Julian poured himself another glass before anyone even sat down.
Liam and I brought homemade peach pie.
It was all we could afford.
Vanessa glanced at the pie and whispered just loudly enough,
"Oh... homemade."
The room laughed politely.
I watched Liam place the pie on the counter as though it belonged there beside the expensive desserts.
He never complained.
Never defended himself.
Never made anyone uncomfortable.
Sometimes I wished he would.
Halfway through dinner, Eleanor cleared her throat.
"I've been updating my estate plans."
The room became quiet.
Julian immediately sat straighter.
Vanessa practically sparkled.
I looked at Liam.
He squeezed my hand under the table.
Eleanor unfolded several papers.
"This house requires responsible ownership."
Julian nodded before she even continued.
"I've decided it makes sense for Julian to eventually inherit it."
I froze.
"My father left the house equally to both of us."
Eleanor smiled.
"A mother can decide how her assets are distributed."
"It's not your asset."
Her smile disappeared.
Vanessa leaned forward.
"You don't even live here."
"I helped pay for it."
Everyone looked at me.
Even Liam.
I had never talked about it.
Not completely.
When I was twenty-three, my father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
The treatments were brutal.
Insurance covered almost nothing.
My father refused to sell the house.
"It belongs to both my children," he kept saying.
Back then I worked two jobs.
Morning receptionist.
Night waitress.
Every extra dollar I earned went toward Dad's medication.
I postponed college.
I sold my first car.
I emptied the tiny savings account I had spent years building.
Almost ninety thousand dollars over four years.
Every cent.
Julian?
He was finishing business school.
My mother insisted he needed to "focus on his future."
So I carried Dad.
Financially.
Emotionally.
Physically.
When chemotherapy left him too weak to stand, I lifted him into the shower.
When he vomited through the night, I cleaned him.
When hospice nurses were unavailable, I slept beside his hospital bed.
Julian visited every other Sunday.
Usually for an hour.
Then he left because seeing Dad sick "affected his mental health."
No one criticized him.
Instead they praised him for trying.
The night Dad died, he asked everyone else to leave the room.
Only Liam and I stayed.
He looked impossibly small beneath the white blankets.
His breathing rattled.
His fingers searched for mine.
"Promise me something."
I leaned closer.
"Anything."
He struggled for air.
"The house..."
Another breath.
"...belongs..."
He looked directly into my eyes.
"...to both of you."
I nodded through tears.
"I promise."
He turned weakly toward Liam.
"Protect..."
Liam understood.
"I will."
My father smiled one final time.
Less than ten minutes later...
He was gone.
The attorney handling the estate contacted us two weeks after the funeral.
There was supposed to be a formal reading of the will.
Eleanor canceled it.
She said lawyers only complicated grieving.
Instead she handed Julian and me photocopies.
I barely looked at mine.
I trusted my mother.
That mistake would cost me everything.
Back in the dining room, I finally asked,
"Where's Dad's original will?"
Eleanor's fork stopped moving.
"What kind of question is that?"
"The obvious kind."
Julian laughed nervously.
"You're being dramatic."
"I want to see the original."
"You don't need to."
"I absolutely do."
Vanessa rolled her eyes.
"Pregnancy hormones."
Liam placed a calming hand on my shoulder.
But something inside me had awakened.
For years, tiny pieces never fit together.
The canceled attorney meeting.
The missing documents.
The way Eleanor always changed the subject whenever I mentioned inheritance.
The fact that property taxes suddenly came from an account only she controlled.
The pieces finally clicked.
"What did you do?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Eleanor stood.
"I think dinner is over."
"No."
I stood too.
"What did you do with Dad's will?"
Julian's face turned pale.
Vanessa stared at her plate.
Nobody answered.
And that silence...
That silence told me more than words ever could.
Two days later, Liam came home carrying a thin manila envelope.
"I stopped by the county records office."
I looked up from folding baby clothes.
"What for?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about what happened."
He placed the envelope on the table.
"There are documents you should see."
Inside were property records.
Transfer forms.
Tax filings.
One document made my stomach drop.
Ownership of the house had changed.
Six months after Dad died.
The signatures looked...
Wrong.
Not obviously fake.
Just...
Wrong.
My father's signature slanted upward.
This one slanted down.
His middle initial was missing.
The date was impossible.
It claimed he had signed the transfer twelve days after hospice records confirmed he had been unconscious.
I stared at the page.
Unable to breathe.
"Liam..."
He nodded slowly.
"I know."
"This can't be real."
"I don't think it is."
I whispered the words neither of us wanted to say.
"They forged Dad's signature."
The apartment suddenly felt too small.
Too hot.
Too quiet.
Liam reached for his phone.
"I'm calling the attorney who handled your father's estate."
"What if we're wrong?"
He looked me directly in the eyes.
"If we're right..."
He swallowed.
"...they didn't just steal a house."
He tapped the document.
"They committed fraud."
Neither of us noticed the black SUV parked across the street.
We didn't notice the man inside photographing our apartment through a telephoto lens.
And we certainly didn't know that less than twenty-four hours later...
May you like
Liam's truck would leave for work.
But he would never come home again.
