Let’s Keep It RealAnd then Kate walked in. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass. She wore a shapeless gray dress, moving like someone who’d lost her center—neck down and shoulders rounded. Where was the woman who stood tall? The dining table was covered with documents. Susan appeared briefly with a tray and left as quickly as she could.
I saw Michael toss a thick stack of papers in front of Kate and a notary hand her a fancy pen. Kate froze for a moment, then Michael leaned behind her and put a heavy hand on the back of her neck. It could have looked like affection from the wrong angle, but I saw his fingers tense. He was steering her, coercing her to sign.
She began to sign in a mechanical way, sheet after sheet, like someone asleep at the wheel. Michael and the notary shook hands with the satisfaction of men finalizing a deal. Michael smiled that predatory smile—the one that comes from getting what you want. I realized then that this wasn’t a family argument: it was a scheme against our family.
I sat frozen for twenty more minutes. After the men left, Michael poured himself a drink and looked out over the property. For a moment his eyes seemed to search where I had parked. He closed the curtains. I started the car and drove away as quietly as I could.
I didn’t go home. I couldn’t trust my apartment. I pulled off at a 24-hour gas station and bought a coffee I didn’t drink. The more I thought about it, the more questions piled up. Why did Kate text me after a year of silence? Why did Michael set such an elaborate scene? I opened the text again and noticed the tone was off—Kate never started messages with “Mom.” She always texted “Mom!” or “Hey Mom” and never ended a note with a period.
It hit me: whoever sent the message wasn’t Kate. Michael could have used her phone to lure me. But why? To show me that Kate had signed things? Or to get me out of the way permanently?
My phone buzzed with a private number. It was Susan, her voice shaky. She asked if I’d left the house and confirmed I was at a gas station. She said she couldn’t talk on an open line—Michael had cameras everywhere, she worried—and insisted I not sleep at my apartment. “Come to my place or the lake house,” she whispered, though she admitted the lake house had no heat.
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