This place had held me before Jackson.
It would hold me after him.
Back at Claire’s house that evening, Naomi called again.
Her voice was different this time. Controlled, but tight.
“Elaine, Marcus’s attorney contacted me.”
“Marcus has an attorney?”
“He does now.”
Claire and I exchanged a look.
Naomi continued, “He found documents in Genesis’s study after officers left. He did not remove originals, but he photographed several items before securing the room. He has turned the photographs over through counsel.”
“What items?”
“A list of properties,” Naomi said. “Names. Addresses. Estimated values.”
My skin prickled.
“My apartment?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“And others?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Naomi paused.
“At least nine.”
Claire stood and walked away from the table, one hand over her mouth.
I sat very still.
Nine.
Nine homes. Nine sets of signatures. Nine stories. Nine people who may have been pressured, tricked, or cornered into giving up what belonged to them.
“Were they family?” I asked.
“Some appear to be connected to friends, church members, extended relatives, business acquaintances. I don’t have the full picture.”
“And Genesis?”
“Her name appears in notes on several pages.”
My mind went back to every luncheon she hosted, every grieving widow she “helped,” every cousin who sold a house quickly after a death in the family, every elderly friend she praised for being sensible about downsizing.
Genesis did not shout like Jackson.
She did not throw plates.
She carved.
Slowly. Patiently. At the joints.
Naomi said, “There’s one more thing.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“The note in your safe may become important, but the missing deed matters more. Do you have any idea where else an original or certified copy might be?”
“My lender has records. The county recorder.”
“Yes, but I mean personally.”
I thought of my files. My office. Safe deposit box? No, I never opened one. My old storage cabinet?
Then I remembered.
“My father’s desk,” I said.
Claire turned back toward me.
After our parents died, Claire and I divided their belongings slowly, sometimes with tenderness, sometimes with arguments, sometimes by avoiding the boxes entirely. I had taken Dad’s old walnut writing desk because I could not bear to see it sold. One drawer stuck unless pulled at the exact angle. Inside was a hidden compartment where he used to keep emergency cash and old letters from our mother.
When I bought the apartment, I placed a certified copy of the deed there as a sentimental gesture more than a practical one. Dad had always believed important papers belonged in important furniture.
“The desk is in my office storage unit,” I said.
“Good,” Naomi replied. “Tomorrow, we retrieve it carefully.”
But tomorrow did not wait.
At 11:17 that night, Claire’s doorbell rang.
Mabel barked once, then began growling low in her throat.
Claire looked at me from across the living room.
Neither of us moved.
The bell rang again.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Marcus.
I’m outside. I know I shouldn’t have come, but there’s something you need to hear tonight. It’s about Jackson. He isn’t Genesis’s only son.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Claire whispered, “What does that mean?”
Outside, through the narrow window beside the front door, I could see Marcus standing under the porch light, rain darkening the shoulders of his coat.
He was not alone.
Beside him stood a woman I had never seen before, holding a worn leather folder against her chest like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Then another text arrived.
From an unknown number.
Check your father’s desk before Genesis does.
The black leather folder beside my handbag looked impossibly small for something that could silence an entire room.
For one suspended second, no one moved.
Not Jackson, whose furious breathing had turned shallow.
Not Genesis, whose fingers hovered over the air where the carving knife had been a heartbeat earlier.
Not the cousins pressed against the walls like portraits of guilt.
Even the old grandfather clock near the hallway seemed to hesitate before it ticked again.
I kept the phone against my ear, my eyes fixed on Jackson’s face as the dispatcher asked me questions in a steady, practiced voice.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m bleeding, but I’m conscious. The address is 1847 Westridge Lane, Hidden Hills. There are approximately twenty people in the house. No, there are no children in the room now.”
