Go home. Open the fireproof box. Pull the deed, probate order, tax records, insurance statements. Check the county recorder’s office. Call Lisa. Change the locks. Activate the cameras. Do not call Stephanie. Do not call my father. Do not explain anything to anyone who is not paid to help me.
My mother thought I had surrendered.
That was her first mistake. Her second was believing that because I rarely raised my voice, I did not know how to use a system.
My name is Meredith Lane. I am thirty-four years old. I work in city housing court as a senior paralegal for a legal aid firm that represents tenants who are accustomed to being bullied by people with better stationery and more confidence than they have legal standing to justify. I am very good at my job because I know what fear sounds like when it is trying to pass as politeness, and I know how often power relies on people simply not reading the second page. I know the look of a forged signature. I know when a deadline is being weaponized. I know that most attempts at coercion fail if you document them before they finish becoming routine.
I do not work in a glass-walled office. I do not attend galas or sit on boards. My salary is respectable but not the kind my parents have ever known how to talk about in front of people they are trying to impress. I wear practical coats and make coffee at home and know exactly how many times a radiator can be patched before maintenance becomes replacement. I volunteer at a legal clinic on Wednesdays because too many people lose what is theirs simply because no one ever told them what language to use when they say no.
