Chapter 6 - The Panic Call
It was exactly 3:42 PM on Tuesday—twenty-four hours after filing—when my phone buzzed violently against the kitchen table.
The screen flashed caller ID: Dad.
I let it ring. The harsh electronic chime echoed through my quiet apartment, steady and relentless, playing out four long rings before cutting off into silence.
Five seconds later, it started again.
I picked it up on the second ring of the second call, keeping my voice entirely neutral, almost bored.
“Hello, Dad?”
“Natalie!” My father’s voice wasn't just panicked; it was shrill, breathless, and cracking at the edges, sounding like a man who had just realized his parachute hadn't opened. “Where are you? What is happening? The police—there are sheriff’s deputies at the house right now!”
“Deputies?” I asked, leaning back against my kitchen counter and taking a slow sip of water. “That sounds serious. Are they having tea?”
“Don't play games with me, Natalie!” he shouted, the sound of shouting in the background—Denise’s voice, sharp and hysterical—bleeding through the phone speaker. “Some official from the county court just slapped a red seal on our front door! They handed us an emergency writ of possession and an asset freeze! They’re saying… they’re saying we have seventy-two hours to clear our personal belongings out of the house because the property title has reverted to the original maternal trust!”
“Oh,” I said mildly. “Uncle Larry mentioned something about that clause. Turns out when you forge a secondary beneficiary’s signature on a probate waiver to sneak your new wife onto the deed, the legal system frowns upon it. Who knew?”
“You did this?” My father’s voice dropped to a choked whisper. “You did this to your own father?”
“No, Dad,” I corrected him, the ice in my tone finally cutting through the pleasantries. “You did this. The day you watched your wife throw a seven-year-old child’s birthday cake into a garbage can while you stood there recording it for laughs, you forgot something very important: you were living in a house that didn’t belong to you. You were just a guest holding a life estate, courtesy of my mother.”
“Natalie, please!” he begged, the sound of breaking glass or a dropped box echoing in the background, followed by Denise screaming something about calling her lawyer. “We can talk about this! We can work something out! You can’t throw us out on the street—Denise has her business, the kids are in school here—”
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“Then I suggest you start packing,” I said evenly. “You have seventy-two hours. Make sure you don't leave any trash in the kitchen. I hear Denise hates clutter.”
I hung up the phone.
