I relaxed and focused on my work.
The investigation was reaching a critical phase, and I was coordinating with international law enforcement on several high-priority cases.
My expertise in financial crimes had made me an essential part of the team, and the work was some of the most important of my career.
The assignment was supposed to end in March, but complications arose that required my expertise for an additional month.
I sent a message to my family explaining the extension, and everyone seemed fine with the news.
“Take all the time you need,” Dad wrote back.
“We’re managing everything here.”
What I didn’t know was that Jake had been watching my house for months, noticing that I never returned, never visited, and never seemed to check on the property.
In his mind, this confirmed what he’d always believed.
I was in over my head, probably struggling financially, and too proud to admit I needed help.
The first sign of trouble came through my secure communication channel.
My supervisor pulled me aside during what was supposed to be my final week overseas.
“We’ve got an unusual situation,” Agent Martinez said, holding a classified report.
“There’s been some activity at your registered address.”
“Nothing immediately threatening, but it was flagged in our monitoring systems.”
My blood ran cold.
“What kind of activity?”
“A property transaction.”
“Someone filed paperwork claiming ownership transfer.”
“It’s probably nothing, but given your security clearance and current assignment, we need to investigate any irregularities.”
I stared at the report, not understanding.
“That’s impossible. I own that house. There’s no transaction.”
“That’s why it was flagged as suspicious.”
“Real estate fraud is sometimes used to compromise federal employees.”
“We’re treating this as a potential security threat until we know more.”
The flight home was a nightmare.
I couldn’t contact my family because of operational security, and I couldn’t get details about what had happened to my house.
All I knew was that someone had somehow filed paperwork claiming they’d purchased my property, and federal investigators were now involved.
I landed on a Tuesday morning and drove straight home.
The house looked normal from the outside, but there was a lockbox on the front door and a sold sign on the lawn.
My key didn’t work.
With my hands shaking, I called the number on the real estate sign.
“Morrison Property Services.”
A cheerful voice answered.
“This is Sarah Morrison. Someone put a sold sign on my house, and I need to know what’s happening.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, you must be the sister. Jake told us you might call.”
“He explained that you’d been struggling with the payments and finally agreed to let him handle the sale.”
“Congratulations on getting out from under that mortgage.”
My stomach dropped.
“Jake Morrison is my brother, and he doesn’t own this house. I do.”
“Ma’am, I have all the paperwork right here.”
“Jake Morrison presented power of attorney documents and a deed showing his ownership.”
“He said you’d been overseas and unable to handle the transaction yourself.”
“The sale closed last week.”
I hung up and immediately called my parents’ house.
“Sarah!” Mom sounded genuinely happy to hear from me.
“You’re back. How was your trip?”
“Where’s Jake? I need to talk to him right now.”