Mom’s mouth fell open as if she had never seen my name written anywhere before. Ashley stepped back and bumped into a porch chair. “Grandma promised me,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “Grandma promised you nothing. She let you visit because she loved you. That’s different from giving you a house.”
A black sedan pulled in behind the sheriff’s cars. My attorney, Melissa Grant, stepped out carrying a folder so thick it looked like a phone book. She walked directly to the deputies and introduced herself.
Melissa opened the folder on the hood of her car. “We have evidence of unlawful occupancy, rental income collected from a property my client owns, forged estate paperwork, and attempts to change the utility account using false authorization.”
Dad’s anger cracked into panic. “This is family business.”
Melissa looked at him. “Fraud is not family business.”
The deputies asked Ashley for identification. Her hands shook as she dug through her purse. Mom began crying, saying everyone was overreacting, that Ashley had only been “keeping the house safe.”
I turned toward the porch. The welcome mat was new. The rocking chairs belonged to Ashley. But through the front window, I could still see Grandma’s blue curtains hanging in the living room.
That hurt more than the yelling.
One deputy asked whether I wanted them removed from the property. My mother stared at me, suddenly gentle, suddenly small. “Claire, please. Don’t do this to your sister.”
I remembered every time she had called me dirty, broken, embarrassing. I remembered Grandma visiting me in rehab when no one else would. I remembered Ashley posting pictures from my lake house with the caption, “Blessed to inherit peace.”
I looked at the deputy. “Yes. I want them removed.”
That was when Ashley snapped. “You don’t even deserve this place!” she screamed. “You were supposed to ruin your life. You always ruin everything.”
