Chapter 2 - The Morning After
At 6:00 a.m., the sun began to filter through the blinds, painting the room in pale gray light. Downstairs was silent. The party had finally died down around two in the morning, leaving behind the stench of stale beer, full trash bags, and leftover food left out on the counters.
I dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, dark trousers, and the leather shoes I used to wear to court depositions.
When I stepped downstairs, the living room was a disaster zone. Paper plates with dried frosting littered the coffee table. Red plastic cups stood on Helen's mahogany side tables, leaving dark ring marks on the polished wood.
In the kitchen, my garlic-lemon chicken was still sitting out on the island, covered in fruit flies. And right in the center of the dining table sat Max’s ceramic dog bowl, still half-full of dry kibble.
I didn't clean a single item. I left it all exactly as it was.
At 7:25 a.m., a dark blue sedan pulled into my driveway. Arthur Pendelton stepped out, wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a leather briefcase. Beside him was a younger woman carrying a mobile scanner and a laptop.
I unlocked the front door and let them in.
Arthur took one look at the dining room, his eyes lingering on the dog bowl on the table. His jaw tightened. "My God, Walter."
"Save the sympathy, Arthur," I said, pulling out a chair at the head of the table—clearing away a pile of dirty napkins to make room. "We have work to do before the freeloaders wake up."
For thirty minutes, Arthur and his assistant, a sharp paralegal named Clara, scanned every document I had printed overnight: the forged deed application, the bank statements showing the Oakridge charges, the canceled credit cards, and the utility accounts that had been secretly altered to list Brian as the primary account holder.
"This isn't just civil fraud, Walter," Arthur said, reviewing a printout of the deed transfer with a magnifying glass. "The signature here... it’s a direct forgery of your notary stamp from your old accounting firm. He stole your stamp from the attic storage, didn't he?"
"I kept my old notary seal in a locked metal box in the study," I nodded. "The lock was forced two months ago. He told me he lost the key and needed to get some old tax returns."
"That's grand larceny, identity theft, and real estate fraud," Arthur said cleanly. "In Virginia, that’s a Class 4 felony. He could be looking at two to ten years."
Before I could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the stairs.
Brian walked down, wearing a stained gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair disheveled from sleep. Behind him came Melissa, wearing a silk robe, scrolling through her phone.
Brian stopped dead on the landing when he saw Arthur and Clara sitting at the dining room table surrounded by files.
"What the hell is this?" Brian demanded, squinting against the morning light. "Dad, who are these people? Why are you holding a meeting in the middle of the living room at seven in the morning?"
Melissa stepped around him, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the legal documents. "Is this about the credit card declining last night? Mr. Bennett, I told you, we had guests over! It was embarrassing when the card didn't work!"
I stood up slowly, picking up a single piece of paper from the table.
"Brian," I said, my voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. "You told the people in this room yesterday that you paid for everything in this house. You told them I lived here for free."
Brian rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, come on! Are you still whining about that joke? It was a prank, Dad! Everyone laughed! Don't tell me you called a lawyer because your feelings got hurt over a dog bowl!"
"I didn't call a lawyer because of the dog bowl, Brian," I said, stepping closer to him. "I called a lawyer because of Oakridge."
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly.
Melissa’s phone slipped slightly in her hand. The color drained from Brian’s face so fast it was as if someone had pulled a plug inside him.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Brian stammered, his bravado vanishing, replaced by a sudden, nervous twitch in his jaw.
"Oakridge Assisted Living," I repeated, holding up the bank statement. "$3,850 a month. Resident ID #8841. Registered under my name, paid for with my money, authorized by a forged power of attorney."
Melissa took a step back toward the stairs. "Brian, you said he wouldn't check the primary checking statements! You said he only looked at the paper summaries!"
"Shut up, Melissa!" Brian snapped, turning on her with a sudden, vicious glare.
"No, let her speak," Arthur interjected, standing up from the table and pulling a formal legal notice from his briefcase. "Because as of 8:00 a.m. this morning, a temporary restraining order has been filed with the Chesterfield Circuit Court. Brian Bennett and Melissa Vance are officially served with an emergency eviction notice."
"Eviction?!" Brian yelled, his face turning red as his panic converted into anger. "You can't evict me! I live here! This is my family home! My mother left this house to me!"
"Your mother died without a will, Brian," I said, looking my son straight in the eyes. "Which meant this house belonged entirely to me. And the deed transfer you filed six months ago? It's fraudulent. The notary stamp you stole makes it a criminal matter."
"You're calling the cops on your own son?" Brian shouted, stepping toward me, his fists clenched. "Over a misunderstanding? After everything I've done for you? I came back here to take care of you!"
"You came back here because you were broke, evicted from your last apartment, and fired from your sales job for stealing petty cash," I replied calmly. "And I let you stay because Helen asked me not to give up on you."
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I picked up Max’s ceramic dog bowl from the center of the table and held it out toward him.
"Helen was wrong," I said. "And so was I."
