“He does not,” Mara said. “The recorded deed is disputed as fraudulent, lending is frozen, title is under review, and your occupancy is unauthorized.”
Tiffany gave a soft incredulous laugh, the kind she used when trying to make authority sound embarrassing. “Rosalind, have you really involved the police in a family misunderstanding?”
“A misunderstanding is using the wrong tablecloth,” I said. “This is forgery.”
The next thirty minutes were chaos, not the kind they had scripted for me. Children stomped upstairs. Suitcases thudded.
Tiffany’s mother hissed about humiliation while shoving toiletries into bags. A lamp went over somewhere. The baby cried without stopping. I stood in my own entryway and watched them dismantle their occupation piece by piece.
At one point Tiffany swept past me and said, low enough that only I could hear, “You always were dramatic.”
“No,” I said. “I was patient. That was your mistake.”
She flinched.
