MY PARENTS KICKED ME OUT AT THANKSGIVING—BUT THEY FORGOT THE HOUSE THEY WERE LIVING IN ALREADY BELONGED TO ME.

"Your grandmother didn't die when your father told you she did.""

Margaret Ellis's words stayed in my head long after our phone call ended.

I sat on Tessa's couch, staring at the photograph of the hospital visitor log.

March 19.

Richard Bennett. Linda Bennett. Derek Bennett.

And somewhere in that hospital, Grandma June had been asking for me.

"Margaret," I finally whispered, "what date did she actually die?""

"March twenty-fourth.""

I gripped my phone.

"Six days later?""

"Yes. She was transferred to a hospice facility on March twentieth. Her health had deteriorated, but she was still conscious when I last spoke to her.""

"Why didn't anyone tell me?""

"That's something I believe you need to hear from your father.""

I almost laughed.

"My father has never told me the truth about anything.""

Margaret sighed.

"I have something else. Can you come to my office this afternoon?""

"I'll be there.""

"Bring the letter from your grandmother. And don't sign anything your parents give you.""

"I won't.""

At two o'clock, Tessa drove me to Margaret's office.

It was a small brick building downtown, with polished wooden floors and framed photographs of the city hanging along the hallway.

Margaret was in her late sixties, with silver hair and sharp blue eyes.

When she saw me, she stood immediately.

"Oh, Avery.""

She wrapped both arms around me.

For some reason, that small gesture nearly made me cry.

"Your grandmother talked about you constantly," she said.

I swallowed.

"She talked about you too?""

"She trusted me.""

Margaret led us into her office and closed the door.

She placed a thick folder on the desk.

Inside were copies of Grandma's original will, property records, medical correspondence, and several handwritten statements.

Margaret opened the will.

"June signed this on January 8, six years ago. She was mentally competent, and two independent witnesses were present.""

She turned the document toward me.

My name appeared beneath the inheritance clause.

418 Willow Creek Road.

The entire property.

I touched the paper.

"She really left it to me.""

"Yes. She wanted to make sure you had somewhere secure to build your future.""

"Did my parents know?""

"Your father knew. He was present when June told him.""

I looked up.

"What did he say?""

Margaret gave me a tired look.

"He asked why she would give a property worth nearly six hundred thousand dollars to a young woman instead of her only son.""

My stomach twisted.

"And Grandma?""

"She told him that you had earned her trust.""

Margaret pulled out another document.

"This is a statement June gave me on March eighteenth.""

She slid it across the desk.

I read slowly.

I believe my son Richard has attempted to obtain ownership of my property through fraudulent documentation. He has approached me several times about signing a transfer to his son Derek. I refused.

I looked at Margaret.

"She knew about the forged deed?""

"She suspected your father had already prepared one.""

"How?""

Margaret pointed to a paragraph.

"Your grandmother received a notice from the county recorder's office. Someone had submitted documents claiming the property had been transferred to you.""

I frowned.

"But that sounds like what she wanted.""

"Not the deed itself. The document claimed you had purchased the property from her for one dollar.""

I stared.

"One dollar?""

"Yes. Your signature was supposedly witnessed by your uncle Peter.""

"But I was in Ohio.""

"I know. June contacted me because she recognized that the signature wasn't yours.""

Margaret opened another folder.

Inside was a letter from Grandma to the county recorder.

It stated that she had never sold or transferred her property.

My hands began to shake.

"Did she report my father?""

"She tried. Unfortunately, the paperwork was still under review when she became seriously ill.""

I looked down at the next document.

It was a hospice intake form.

Grandma's name.

March 20.

At the bottom, someone had written:

Patient requests granddaughter Avery Bennett be contacted immediately.

My throat tightened.

"Why wasn't I called?""

Margaret took off her glasses.

"Your father listed himself as the primary family contact. He told the facility you were traveling internationally and could not be reached.""

"I was in Ohio. I lived two hours away.""

"I know.""

"Did Grandma ask for me again?""

Margaret nodded.

"Several times.""

I covered my mouth.

"Did she know I wasn't coming?""

"She believed you had abandoned her. Richard told her you had decided not to visit.""

I began crying.

Tessa wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

"That wasn't true," I whispered.

"I know, sweetheart," Margaret said gently.

She waited until I could breathe again.

Then she placed one final document on the desk.

"This is the most important thing.""

It was a certified property record.

The original mortgage had been paid off by Grandma two years before her death.

The balance was zero.

I stared at it.

"Then the $1,845 payments...""

"Were never going toward an original mortgage.""

"Where did the money go?""

Margaret opened another page.

The payments had been transferred into an account registered to a property management company.

Its listed owner was Richard Bennett.

My father.

I slowly leaned back.

Four years.

Forty-eight payments.

Eighty-eight thousand five hundred and sixty dollars.

My parents hadn't needed my help paying their mortgage.

They had created a mortgage payment that didn't exist.

"Why would they do that?""

Margaret's expression turned serious.

"That's what we need to establish. But I suspect those payments were used to cover expenses connected to the unauthorized loan.""

I wiped my cheeks.

"Can we get the house back?""

"Legally, the original ownership records are strongly in your favor. But the fraudulent deed and subsequent loan will need to be addressed.""

She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a small envelope.

"June left this with me. She instructed me to give it to you personally.""

My name was written across the front.

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph of Grandma sitting on the porch of Willow Creek Road. I was beside her, probably eight years old, holding a glass of lemonade.

On the back, she had written:

One day, this house will be yours. Never let anyone convince you that you don't deserve a place to call home.

I pressed the photograph against my chest.

Then Margaret's office phone rang.

She listened for a few seconds before her expression changed.

"Excuse me?""

She turned toward me.

"Who filed that request?""

Another pause.

Then she slowly put down the receiver.

"Avery, someone has submitted an emergency application to sell 418 Willow Creek Road.""

My heart stopped.