He was my father’s chief legal counsel, silver-haired, calm, and terrifying. He carried a titanium briefcase and walked straight to the blood-stained contract on the floor.
He picked it up, examined my fingerprint, and said, “A void document, created through physical coercion and remarkable stupidity.”
Then he tore it into pieces and let them fall into Nathaniel’s lap.
“Mr. Cross,” Malcolm said, “you have ten minutes to vacate this property.”
“Vacate?” Nathaniel gasped. “This is my house. My name is on the deed.”
Malcolm opened his briefcase and dropped legal files in front of him.
“Your name is on a lease,” he corrected. “A lease subsidized by a blind trust owned by Ms. Whitmore. You do not own this house. You do not own the land beneath it.”
Nathaniel stared at the documents.
“My company… I built it.”
