Chapter 3 - The Midnight Interrogation
The downtown police precinct smelled of cheap coffee, old paper, and desperation.
Detective Sarah Miller sat across from me in a small, windowless interrogation room. The manila folder containing the fraudulent deed, power-of-attorney documents, and bank transfer logs lay spread across the stainless-steel table between us.
"Mr. Bradley, your mother isn't just playing family politics," Detective Miller said, sliding a bank statement toward me with her pen. "Look at this transfer from three weeks ago. Fifty thousand dollars moved out of your primary savings and into an escrow account registered under a shell corporation called T.B. Holdings. That stands for Teresa Bradley."
I stared at the numbers. Fifty thousand dollars. That was the down payment I had been saving for the addition we wanted to build onto the house—a nursery and a master suite for Amy so she wouldn't have to navigate the steep stairs with a baby.
"She told me that money was sitting safely in a high-yield CD earning interest for Frederick's college fund," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"She lied," Miller stated bluntly. "And based on the documents Mason was carrying, tonight was the final execution phase. Once the party was underway and your signature was notarized—using a mobile notary she had scheduled to arrive at your house at 8:00 PM—the house would have legally transferred to her name. She was planning to evict both of you by Monday morning, claiming financial abandonment."
My breath hitched. Evict us. From the home I had built with my own two hands, framing every wall, pouring every yard of concrete, and paying off every cent of the mortgage.
"Can we freeze the accounts?" I asked.
"They're already frozen under a court-ordered emergency injunction," Miller replied, standing up and buttoning her jacket. "Your mother is currently being booked on charges of grand larceny, elder abuse of financial trust—since she claimed to be managing funds for your household dependents—and forgery. But I'll warn you, Mr. Bradley, she's talking to her lawyer right now. She claims you willingly signed those papers over during a family dinner six months ago."
"I was working eighty-hour weeks on the downtown bridge project six months ago," I growled, standing up. "I wouldn't sign away my son's roof over a bowl of soup."
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"Then we prove it in court," Miller said. "But be prepared. People like Teresa don't go down quietly. They burn everything around them on their way out."
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