The officer inspecting the folder pulled out a thick stack of legal documents and waved for his supervisor. “Sergeant, you’re going to want to see this,” he called out. “We’ve got a quitclaim deed here for this property, pre-signed and notarized, along with several power-of-attorney forms and offshore bank routing slips.”
My heart did a violent flip. A quitclaim deed? I had bought this house six years ago, long before I met Amy, paying off the mortgage entirely through brutal eighty-hour work weeks on commercial construction sites. I had never signed any deed over to my mother, nor had I ever authorized a power of attorney.
Amy’s soft voice broke through my swirling thoughts. “Connor...” she whispered, her lips chapped and her eyes wide with fear. “Are... are they going to take us to jail? She told me if I complained, she’d call child protective services and tell them I was an unfit mother. She said she had documents signed by a judge...”
I turned to my wife, feeling a tear slip down my cheek. I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her fragile frame until I could feel her rapid heartbeats settling against mine. “Nobody is taking you anywhere, Amy. Nobody is ever going to hurt you or Frederick again. I swear it on my life.”
I kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of lemon soap, sweat, and grease that had been forced upon her. The anger inside me solidified into something hard and indestructible. I stepped out of the truck, closing the door softly so as not to startle Frederick, and walked straight toward the lead detective who had just arrived on the scene.
Detective Vance was a tall, gray-tempered man with sharp eyes that had seen every variation of human greed Nashville had to offer. “Mr. Bradley?” he asked, holding up a badge. “I’m Detective Vance with the Financial Crimes and Domestic Abuse Division. Your call mentioned forced labor and unauthorized entry, but what we’re looking at here seems to go much deeper.”
“They were trying to steal my home,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “And my mother has been extortionately taking three thousand dollars a month from me under the guise of helping my family, while systematically starving and abusing my wife.”
Teresa overheard me and let out an ear-splitting scream. “You ungrateful brat! I gave you life! I built you! That weak, pathetic little girl you married is a leech! She was ruining you! I was saving our family legacy!”
“Shut your mouth, Teresa!” I snapped, turning to face her. The sheer force of my voice made her flinch—something she had never done in my thirty years of living. “You are not a mother. You are a thief. And whatever game you and Mason are playing ends tonight.”
Detective Vance motioned for the officers to load Teresa and Mason into separate patrol cars. “Mr. Bradley, we found a safe-deposit box key and a flash drive inside this folder along with the forged deeds. Do you know what might be on this drive?”