Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE FOLDER
By noon, I had changed the locks.
By one, Margaret had filed the first emergency paperwork.
By two, my father had called eleven times.
I answered none.
Grandma sat at the kitchen table reading a newspaper as though none of this concerned her.
“You're very calm.”
She folded the newspaper.
“I've lived eighty-one years.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“It explains everything.”
I sat across from her.
“Dad was outside.”
“I know.”
I looked up.
“How?”
She smiled.
“I heard your car door.”
“Grandma.”
“He has always parked too close to the curb.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then her smile disappeared.
“He wants something.”
“The house.”
“No.”
I waited.
“He wants what is inside the house.”
I thought about Grandpa's letter.
The blue folder.
“Do you know what it contains?”
“No.”
“But Grandpa did.”
“Yes.”
“What was he involved in?”
Grandma looked down.
“Your grandfather had a business partner.”
“Who?”
“Samuel Reed.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“He owned a construction company?”
“Yes.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I don't know.”
I called Margaret.
She searched the name.
Ten minutes later, she called back.
“Samuel Reed died four years ago.”
“Did he have a son?”
“Yes. Michael Reed.”
“Where is he?”
“Cincinnati.”
I looked at Grandma.
“Why?”
Margaret paused.
“Because Michael Reed contacted the title company this morning.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“He says he has records concerning your grandfather's business.”
I looked at Grandma.
She whispered, “The blue folder.”
Margaret continued.
“He wants to meet.”
“Where?”
“A public place.”
“Today?”
“He can be there at five.”
We agreed.
At five, I met Michael Reed in a small café.
He was in his late forties, wearing a dark coat and carrying a worn leather briefcase.
He stood when he saw us.
“Mrs. Sterling?”
Grandma nodded.
“My father talked about you.”
Michael smiled sadly.
“He thought very highly of your husband.”
Grandma looked at him.
“Did your father know Arthur?”
Michael's expression changed.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Too well.”
He sat down.
Then opened the briefcase.
Inside was a blue folder.
My heart stopped.
Grandma reached for it.
Michael didn't let go immediately.
“Before you open this, I need you to understand something.”
She looked at him.
“My father kept these records because he didn't trust Arthur.”
Grandma's eyes closed.
“Why?”
“Because money disappeared.”
My pulse quickened.
“How much?”
“Over the years? Hundreds of thousands.”
I stared at him.
“From what?”
“The company.”
Grandma whispered, “Arthur?”
Michael nodded.
“My father confronted him.”
“And?”
“They fought.”
“Then what?”
“Your grandfather bought Arthur out.”
Grandma's face went pale.
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“He tried.”
Michael looked down.
“My father said your husband wanted to protect you.”
That sentence made me angry.
Everyone had been protecting everyone.
Except nobody had protected Grandma from the people she trusted.
Michael opened the folder.
There were bank statements.
Contracts.
Partnership agreements.
Copies of checks.
And a handwritten note.
Arthur Sterling owes $187,400.
I stared at the number.
Michael explained.
“Your grandfather paid it.”
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn't want Arthur prosecuted.”
Grandma covered her mouth.
Michael continued.
“But your grandfather made him sign an agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“That he would never have a claim against the family property.”
I looked up.
“Does the agreement mention the house?”
“Yes.”
Michael handed me a copy.
There it was.
Arthur Sterling acknowledges that he has no ownership interest, present or future, in property held solely by Eleanor Sterling.
My heart pounded.
“That's huge.”
Michael nodded.
“It gets bigger.”
He turned another page.
A separate document showed that the $187,400 debt had been converted into a family loan.
Repayment schedule.
Interest.
Collateral.
The collateral?
Arthur's future inheritance.
Grandma stared at it.
“I never knew.”
Michael looked at her.
“Your husband didn't want you to worry.”
She closed her eyes.
“I have spent my entire life worrying anyway.”
I put the documents down.
“What does this mean for the deed?”
Michael looked at me.
“It means Arthur had a financial motive to take the property.”
My phone buzzed.
Margaret.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Ivan, we need to talk.”
“What happened?”
“The county has placed a temporary hold on the deed challenge.”
“Why?”
“Arthur filed a response.”
“What did he claim?”
“He says Eleanor voluntarily transferred the property.”
I looked at Grandma.
Michael shook his head.
“That isn't true.”
“I know.”
“There's more,” Margaret said.
“What?”
“Arthur submitted a second document.”
My stomach dropped.
“What document?”
“A letter supposedly signed by Eleanor stating that she wanted to move into assisted living and transfer the property to the family LLC.”
Grandma stood.
“I never wrote that.”
“I know.”
Margaret continued.
“We're going to challenge it.”
“What's the problem?”
“The letter is notarized.”
Silence.
I looked at Michael.
He looked equally shocked.
“Who notarized it?”
Margaret gave me the name.
A notary public in Norwood.
The same area where Greenhaven was located.
The same day my parents had scheduled Grandma's “lunch.”
My stomach turned.
“Can we find out who brought the document?”
“We're working on it.”
Grandma suddenly said, “I know.”
I turned.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“The notary.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
“But I've seen her.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“At my house.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
“My son said she was there to update my insurance documents.”
I stared at Grandma.
“He brought the notary into the house.”
“Yes.”
“And you signed something?”
“I signed what I thought was an insurance form.”
Michael swore under his breath.
Grandma's eyes filled with tears.
“I told you.”
“What?”
“I told you I signed papers.”
I took her hand.
“You didn't know what they were.”
“No.”
“That's not your fault.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe it is.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Trusting your son is not a crime.”
She cried then.
Quietly.
The first tears I had seen from her since I picked her up.
I put my arm around her.
Michael looked away to give her privacy.
After several minutes, she wiped her face.
“What do we do now?”
I looked at the blue folder.
“We fight.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Then her phone rang.
The screen showed my father's name.
Grandma looked at me.
I shook my head.
She answered.
“Arthur?”
I could hear his voice faintly.
“Mom, where are you?”
Grandma looked at me.
Then she said, “I'm safe.”
“Who are you with?”
She smiled faintly.
“Your son.”
Silence.
Then Dad said something that made Grandma's expression change.
“What did you say?”
She listened.
Her face went pale.
She ended the call.
I stood.
“What happened?”
Grandma looked at me.
“Your father said if I don't sign the property documents by Friday, the bank will take the house.”
I stared at her.
“What bank?”
“I don't know.”
Michael's face hardened.
“That's a lie.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your grandfather's records show the house has no mortgage.”
I looked at him.
“No mortgage?”
“Paid off twenty-three years ago.”
Grandma slowly sat down.
“So he lied.”
“Yes.”
I felt something inside me change.
Until then, part of me had still been hoping there was some misunderstanding.
There wasn't.
My father knew exactly what he was doing.
He had lied about the nursing home.
He had lied about the withdrawals.
He had lied about the house.
He had lied about the bank.
And now he was using fear to pressure an eighty-one-year-old woman into signing away her home.
I looked at Grandma.
“Then Friday isn't the deadline.”
“No,” she said.
May you like
I stood.
“Friday is the day we stop him.”
