Psychological Warfare
Revenge doesn’t start with rage. It starts with silence. I skipped the funeral. I let Victor have his moment, playing the grieving son-in-law. I, instead, went to see an old friend.
Marcus Black. In high school, he was the only person smarter than me. Now, he was one of the most ruthless real estate and probate lawyers in the state. His office was sleek, all glass and steel, overlooking the Hudson.
I walked in, my face a Picasso of purple and blue.
“Holy hell, Chloe,” he muttered, standing up. “What happened to you?”
“The welcome wagon,” I said, and dropped the metal box on his desk.
He sat down and began to read. He was silent for ten minutes. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wide.
“This…” he said, “this is iron-clad. This deed makes you the legal owner of everything. The house, the land, the trust fund your grandfather set up that I’m sure Victor has been pilfering from. Any will he might have produced or forged is irrelevant. This deed bypasses probate. As of your grandfather’s death, they are squatters in your home.”
“I know,” I said. “But I want to do this right. No public drama. No police… yet.”
Marcus leaned back, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You don’t just want the house, do you? You want blood.”
“He made me bleed, Marcus. I’ll make him beg.”
“Psychological warfare,” he said, nodding in approval. “I like it. Here’s what we do. I’ll file the deed with the county clerk first thing. I’ll also file an emergency injunction and a notice of eviction. And I’ll contact the District Attorney’s white-collar crime unit about these bank statements. But first… you want to serve him the papers yourself, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, my bruised face pulling into a smile. “I do.”
The Reckoning
Two days later, I showed up at the house again. This time, I wasn’t alone. Marcus was with me, briefcase in hand, and two local sheriff’s deputies were parked at the end of the driveway, on call.
Mom and Victor were hosting a “post-funeral dinner” with some of Grandpa’s old business partners. Victor was, no doubt, cementing his new role as the grieving heir, ready to take over the estate. The timing was perfect.
We walked right in the front door.
When I entered the dining room, every head turned. The chatter stopped. Mom’s wine glass nearly slipped from her hand.
Victor stood up, his face turning a blotchy, furious red. “I told you—”
“Sit down, Victor,” I interrupted. My voice was calm, controlled, and loud enough to fill the silent room. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to reclaim what’s mine.”
“Get out of my house!” he roared.
“That’s the thing,” Marcus said, stepping forward. He opened his briefcase and laid the original deed, now filed and stamped by the county, on the dining table like a crown on display. “It’s not your house. It’s hers.”
Victor frowned, his bravado faltering. “What is this nonsense? I have a will. Arthur left everything to Helen, his loving wife.”
“The will you forged?” I asked. “Or a different one? The one you filed last week is already under review by the District Attorney’s office. We’ve… flagged it for forgery.”
The room went dead silent. You could hear the ice melting in the glasses.
