My living room filled with Kristen’s voice, echoing from the recording, careless and cruel: “Denise is so naive, working honestly like that. Once we establish the facts on the ground, she won’t dare kick us out because she’ll worry about appearances. This house is ours.”
My aunt made a sound of disgust. Someone whispered, “Oh my God.” My cousin covered her mouth with her hand.
The recording continued—my father’s voice, lower, approving, joking about how I’d “get over it” once it was done. My mother laughing softly. Plans spoken aloud, like they were too confident to worry about consequence.
The officers watched, faces unreadable but eyes sharp.
I turned back to them.
“They entered while I was away,” I said, “using a duplicate key made without my authorization. They removed property from my wine cellar. They accessed personal items. They damaged property. They brought belongings and moved into a guest suite without my consent.”
My voice stayed calm, even as my chest burned.
“Even now,” I added, “they’re occupying the house. This is ongoing.”
Morris’s hand trembled. His pen slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor. He stared at the screen like he’d been punched.