Curled my lip.
Tightened my jaw.
That house had stopped being home the moment they made it clear I’d never be more than a walking ATM with a blank resume.
Still, I couldn’t ignore it.
Not because I cared what Megan had to say, but because if something had gone wrong, I needed to make sure it wasn’t going to get pinned on me.
I drove in silence, headlights cutting through the dusk like a knife.
My stomach turned the entire ride.
Not from worry.
From anticipation.
A part of me, the part I’d buried under years of obligation and silence, wanted a fight.
Wanted them to try and play the victims one last time so I could finally, fully and publicly cut the cord.
When I pulled up to the house, I knew something was off immediately.
There were two cars in the driveway I didn’t recognize.
One of them looked like a contractor’s van.
The other was a silver sedan with the emblem half hanging off.
The porch light was off, which was odd because Mom always insisted on leaving it on just in case company comes by.
I stepped out of my car and the warm night air felt heavier than it should have.
As I got closer, I saw Megan on the front steps, arms wrapped around her knees, looking small in a way that didn’t match her usual posture of smug confidence.
She stood when she saw me, brushing hair from her face, and said softly:
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said flatly. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”
She hesitated.
“Inside, talking to the guy from the bank.”
I blinked.
“The bank?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“Apparently, Dad tried to take out another loan against the property before the eviction notice went through. Claimed it was just a delay in the paperwork. He thought he could flip the guest house for a quick buck.”
And by time, I felt something cold trickle down my spine.
“But he doesn’t own the house. I do. His name’s not on the deed.”
“Exactly.”
She exhaled hard.
“The bank caught it before the funds cleared, but now there’s a fraud flag on the property. They’re sending someone to evaluate next steps. He might have just committed mortgage fraud.”
“Nate…”
I didn’t speak.
Couldn’t really.
My brain was already moving 10 steps ahead.
Liability.
Paperwork.
Lawsuits.
Damage control.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Inside,” she said again, quieter this time. “Yelling.”
I walked past her and opened the door without knocking.
Inside, it looked like a bomb had gone off.
Not physically.