Chapter 3 - The Anatomy of a Parasite
The silence that followed Julian’s confession was heavy enough to crush bone.
Beatrice stared down at the smartphone lying face-up on the floor, the little green icon glowing faintly to indicate the call was still active. The color had completely drained from her face, leaving her skin a sallow, chalky gray under the recessed lighting. All the arrogant, unearned superiority she had strutted into my home with had evaporated, replaced by the cold, biting realization that her golden-boy son had just traded her temporary comfort for a federal felony.
I bent down slowly, picked up the phone, and tapped the red end-call button. The screen went dark.
“He forged your signature?” Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking as she looked up at me, her hands trembling violently against the folds of her expensive silk robe. “He... he committed forgery? Real estate fraud?”
“Class three felony in the state of Georgia,” I supplied helpfully, walking over to the kitchen island and pouring myself a glass of ice-cold water from the filtered tap. I took a slow sip, letting the chill settle in my chest before looking back at her. “And since real estate title transfers require notarization, that means he either had to bribe a corrupt notary or forge a notary stamp as well. That bumps it up to federal wire fraud and identity theft. Impressive portfolio management, wouldn't you say?”
Beatrice slumped onto one of the Bless This Home embroidered cushions on the sofa, her hands flying to her face. For the first time since I walked through the door, she looked old. Really old.
“He told me... he told me his firm was expanding,” she choked out, tears finally spilling over her cheeks, ruining her carefully maintained composure. “He said he needed a secure asset to protect our family’s generational wealth from your corporate litigation. He swore you were vindictive.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Generational wealth, Beatrice? The only thing Julian ever inherited from your side of the family was a talent for denial and a knack for living beyond your means. When I met your son, he had thirty-two thousand dollars in credit card debt and a leased BMW he couldn't make payments on. I cleared his ledgers because I foolishly believed in partnership. I paid for his wardrobe, I backed his startup pitch deck, and I gave him a place to sleep where he didn't have to look at past-due notices.”
I walked over to the entryway console, picking up one of my framed landscape photographs that Beatrice had tossed onto the floor near a pile of moving boxes. I brushed a speck of dust off the glass, my reflection staring back at me—composed, sharp, and entirely unbothered.
“You called me a trespasser, Beatrice,” I continued, my voice steady and cold. “You stood in my foyer, wearing my grandmother's porcelain mug aesthetic—no wait, drinking from her mug—and ordered me out of the home I purchased three years before Julian and I even exchanged vows. Let’s talk about who is actually leaving.”
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Beatrice looked up, panic flaring in her eyes. “Veronica, please. We’re family. Julian is an idiot, yes, but he’s my only son. If you go to the police, if you report the forgery, his career is over. He’ll go to prison!”
“That sounds less like my problem and more like a consequence,” I replied smoothly. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket, opened my contacts, and scrolled down to the direct extension of my corporate real estate attorney, Marcus Vance. “Marcus? It’s Veronica Sterling. I’m back in Atlanta. I need you to initiate an emergency fraud injunction and a writ of ejection for my property on Peachtree Street. Yes, an unauthorized title transfer occurred while I was out of state. I’ll send over the original tax filings and my certified ID right now. Let’s have the sheriff’s department here within the hour.”
