Chapter 2
The man who emerged from the shadowy foyer was tall, prematurely grey, and wore an expensive charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place on the decaying Oakridge porch. He carried no luggage, only a gold-banded fountain pen tucked into his breast pocket. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She had checked the county records three times; the house was supposed to be completely vacant, foreclosed and abandoned by the bank after their mother’s passing eighteen months ago.
"Clara," the man said, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth. "It’s been a long time."
Clara stared, her mind racing backward through years of buried memories. It was Julian Vance, their cousin—or rather, the cousin they had buried legally twenty years ago after a fiery car crash in upstate New York. She looked from Julian to Helena, whose triumphant smirk confirmed every paranoid suspicion Clara had harbored since the funeral.
"You're dead," Clara whispered, stepping back until the edge of her luggage bit into the back of her knees.
"Clearly not," Julian replied, stepping past Helena and placing a hand on the yellow folder still clutched in Clara's grip. His fingers were cold. "And that folder you're holding contains signatures that belong to a man who legally never existed."
David finally found his voice, stepping forward from the porch swing. "Julian? What is going on here? Helena said you were just... visiting."
"David, shut up," Martha murmured from the steps, her voice cutting through the rising panic like a scalpel. She finally looked up, her dark eyes locking onto Clara with a terrifying intensity. "She didn't just sell the house, David. She sold the land underneath it. And everyone buried in the family plot."
Clara felt the ground shift beneath her boots. The yellow folder grew impossibly heavy. She looked down at the exposed corner of the deed and saw a signature she didn't recognize, dated just yesterday.
May you like
Julian leaned in close, smelling faintly of stale scotch and old paper. "You thought you outsmarted us, Clara. But the buyer isn't who you think it is."
***
