"That land's worth a lot," he said, his voice rising. "You can't just let that fall into someone else's hands!"
I stayed calm, already pulling out my phone.
"I don't have much of a choice," I said matter-of-factly. "You're always gone for work. Your mom refuses to move anywhere near my family's place back in Montana. So this is the only real option."
I started dialing.
Instantly, Paul lunged forward and snatched the phone right out of my hands, gripping it like a lifeline.
"If it's between your sketchy friends getting it or the government seizing it," he snapped, "I'd rather see it confiscated."
"After all, your parents have been gone for years. The state raised you. You should be grateful."
In my past life, I actually bought into that manipulative nonsense about gratitude.
I was so desperate to be accepted that I handed over the ownership documents for our family's farm and more than thirteen acres of mountain land, thinking Paul would handle the paperwork properly and submit everything to the state.
I had no clue he'd double-cross me.