Chapter 5 - The Manila Folder
Mason froze like a deer caught in high beams. "I... I just need to use the restroom. My stomach hurts."
"Step away from the gate and put that folder on the hood of the nearest car," Officer Miller ordered, unlapsung his holster strap just enough to show he wasn't playing games.
Teresa’s face drained of all color. "Mason, don't you dare! That’s private family business!"
Mason panicked. Instead of dropping the folder, he spun around and bolted toward the open side gate. But Officer Miller was faster. With a swift sweep of his leg and a practiced tackle, the officer pinned Mason against the wooden fence, knocking the thick manila folder out of his grip. Papers fluttered across the grass like startled pigeons.
"Got him," Officer Miller said into his shoulder radio, clicking his cuffs onto Mason’s wrists. "Backup, I need someone over here by the side gate. We've got a suspect attempting to destroy or conceal potential evidence in a property dispute."
Two backup officers jogged over, hauling Mason up from the grass while another officer knelt down to gather the scattered documents.
I walked over, my heart hammering against my ribs, and looked down at the papers the officer was picking up.
Right there on top, stamped with the official seal of the Davidson County Register of Deeds, was a document I hadn't laid eyes on since the day I closed on the house three years ago: the original warranty deed, listing my name as sole owner—alongside a stack of quitclaim deeds that had been filled out in handwriting, attempting to transfer ownership of my property over to Teresa Bradley.
And underneath those? Bank statements from the joint account I shared with my mother, showing thousands of dollars funneled not into household expenses, but into high-end retail shopping sprees, vacations to Florida, and wire transfers to accounts bearing Mason’s name.
Officer Miller stood up, holding the folder, and looked from Mason to Teresa.
"Well," the officer said, his voice dripping with professional skepticism. "Looks like we have more than just a domestic disturbance here. Looks like felony fraud, forgery, and grand larceny."
Teresa shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and lunged toward the officer. "You can't arrest me! I am his mother! I raised him! This house is mine! Amy, you bitch, tell them! Tell them it’s mine!"
Two officers stepped in, gently but firmly guiding Teresa’s arms behind her back. The silver click of handcuffs echoed across the sunny Nashville afternoon.
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As they pushed her toward the cruiser, Teresa kept screaming insults, her face twisted in pure venom. But for the first time in my life, her voice didn't make me flinch. It sounded distant, hollow, and utterly powerless.
I turned my back on the circus unfolding on my lawn, walked back to my truck, and opened the door. Amy was holding Frederick, tears streaming down her face, but for the first time in over a year, those tears didn't look like defeat. They looked like rain washing away a long, brutal drought.
