My mother stood with one hand pressed theatrically to her chest. “We were only trying to help her, Your Honor. Rowan has been… difficult to reach. She isolates. She shuts us out. We were afraid she was making terrible decisions.”
There it was.
Unstable.
Not said directly, but placed in the air like perfume.
I felt heat rise in my neck. My parents had spent my whole life weaponizing tone. Never scream if a sigh will do. Never accuse if concern can sound more civilized.
Brennan picked up the thread. “The plaintiffs have attempted to collect rent for several months. Their daughter refused to respond.”
“I don’t owe them rent,” I said. “I own the house.”
He turned slightly, all patience. “County records reflect a deed transfer on November first.”
The judge’s gaze sharpened. “Yes. About that. Ms. Sinclair contends the quitclaim deed is forged.”
“It is notarized,” Brennan said.
He handed up the deed. Judge Carrigan read it slowly. Her eyes stopped at the notary section.
“Who is Petra Jovanovic?”
