“Mom.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll text you the address.”
“Are you safe?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Is somebody hurting you?”
“No.”
“What happened at the house?”
Another pause.
“Please just come here.”
I looked through the doorway at Richard.
He was watching me carefully.
“I’m coming.”
I hung up.
Chloe said, “You really should talk to David first.”
I turned to her.
“No.”
“Sarah.”
“If one more person tells me to speak to my ex-husband instead of my son, I’m going to assume there is a reason.”
Something in her face changed.
That was enough for me.
I left.
The address Liam sent was fourteen minutes away.
It was not a dorm.
It was not a friend’s family home.
It was a worn apartment complex behind a strip mall.
Two-story buildings. Peeling metal railings. Old window units. A broken vending machine beside the management office.
I parked.
Liam opened the apartment door before I could knock.
He looked exhausted.
Same Liam.
But not quite.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Wrinkled T-shirt.
Hair overdue for a haircut.
He hugged me so hard I almost lost my balance.
“Mom.”
I held him.
“You’re okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you living here?”
He pulled back.
“Come inside.”
The apartment belonged to a classmate named Nate, who spent most nights at his girlfriend’s place. Liam had been renting the second bedroom for cash.
The room contained a mattress on the floor.
One plastic dresser.
Two boxes.
His backpack.
That was almost everything.
I stared at him.
“You left your stuff at the beach house?”
“Most of it.”
“Why?”
Liam locked the apartment door.
Then he closed the curtains.
That frightened me more than the apartment.
“Liam.”
He glanced toward the window.
Then at me.
“Someone’s been following me.”
Every instinct in my body sharpened.
“What?”
“A gray sedan.”
“How long?”
“About a week.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“I drove into a police station parking lot yesterday. The car left.”
I put down my purse.
“We are calling them now.”
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I flew here and found your father’s entire family living in my house while you’re hiding in this apartment because somebody has been following you. I’m done waiting.”
He reached under the mattress.
Then he pulled out a black notebook.
Cheap hard cover.
No label.
He handed it to me.
“What is this?”
“I took it from Grandpa’s office.”
I stared at him.
“What office?”
“The downstairs bedroom at the beach house.”
“Richard has an office in my house?”
“He said he needed somewhere to keep business files because they were doing work at his company office.”
I opened the notebook.
The first pages looked ordinary.
Numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
Then came names.
Richard.
Helen.
David.
Chloe.
Mine.
Beside my name was one number.
$400,000.
Farther down were property addresses, wire transfers, loan references, bank abbreviations, and notes I did not understand.
Liam sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Keep going.”
I turned another page.
Atlantic Crest Holdings.
The address of the beach house.
Then:
$280,000.
Collateral.
Transfer.
Closing.
My fingers went cold.
“What is Atlantic Crest?”
“Grandpa’s company.”
“His construction company?”
“Not exactly. A holding company.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I checked.”
“Checked where?”
“County records.”
My heartbeat quickened.
He reached into his backpack and handed me several printed pages.
“These are copies.”
The first was familiar.
My deed.
The one recorded after closing eight months earlier.
Sarah Mitchell.
Owner.
Purchase price: $400,000.
Then another document.
A quitclaim deed.
Recorded five days after my purchase.
Grantor:
Sarah Mitchell.
Grantee:
Atlantic Crest Holdings LLC.
I stared at the signature.
My name.