Chapter 8 - The Family Emergency Call
Before Marcus Vance could finish his coffee, my cell phone—sitting on the wooden table by the window—lit up with a bright, insistent flash and the buzzing ringtone of an incoming call.
The caller ID read: *Mother.*
I looked at the screen, then at Vance, who was calmly sipping his coffee and watching the snow pile up against the A-frame windows outside.
"Take it," Vance said dryly. "Could be entertaining."
I picked up the phone and swiped the green answer icon, hitting speakerphone so the acoustic ring echoed slightly in the quiet cabin.
"Becca?" My mother’s voice didn't sound angry anymore. It sounded small, terrified, and hollowed out. "Becca, please tell me you're still at the cabin."
"I am, Mom," I said, my tone neutral. "Where else would I be?"
"Thank God," she breathed, a ragged sob catching in her throat. "Jason... Jason was just arrested. At his office in Denver. The federal marshals came and took him down to the county detention center. They’re saying... they’re saying the property transfer was part of a larger wire fraud scheme, and because my signature was on the affidavit, the investigators are looking at me too."
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling a cold weight settle in my chest—not for Jason, and not really for Olivia, but for the miserable web of wreckage my sister had dragged my mother into because she couldn't stand the thought of losing her country club membership.
"Mom," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Did you read that affidavit before you signed it?"
"Olivia said it was just standard family estate paperwork!" Diane wailed down the line. "She said you knew all about it! She said you agreed to let them use the cabin's equity temporarily to save the kids' school tuition!"
"Mom," I said, and this time my voice was hard as the granite peaks outside. "I haven't spoken to Olivia about my real estate holdings since I bought the place three years ago. You knew that. You knew I worked every weekend, every holiday, every overtime shift to pay for every nail in these walls. And you signed a paper giving it away anyway because Olivia cried."
Silence stretched across the phone line—long, suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the distant howling of the wind over Red Mountain Pass.
"Can you... can you come down to Denver, Becca?" my mother whispered, her voice breaking entirely. "Please. They’re saying I might need a lawyer. Olivia is locked in her bedroom and won't answer the door. I don't know what to do."
May you like
I looked across the kitchen island at Marcus Vance, who was watching me with an expression of sharp, professional detachment. Then I looked out the window at the snow-covered peaks, standing tall, immutable, and entirely unmovable against the winter sky.
"No, Mom," I said softly. "I can't come down to Denver. I have work to do up here."
