NOAH:
They said you left. Dad is drinking. Madison is yelling. I hate it here.
My grip tightened around the phone.
I typed back carefully.
Stay in your room. Don’t argue. I’m coming back.
After I hit send, I sat still for a long time.
Something on that porch had changed in me.
It was not rage. Rage is loud. Rage shakes the walls.
This was quieter.
Colder. Sharper.
Like a locked file in my head had finally opened.
The folder on the table stopped feeling like paperwork.
It started feeling like leverage.
Two days later, I met Mr. Carter.
He walked into that motel room wearing a suit too expensive for the space, clean and crisp in a way that almost offended the stained carpet.
He looked around once, then looked at me.
“You could have picked a better place,” he said.
“I did,” I answered. “Just not for this part.”
He sat down carefully.
“The transfer is complete,” he said. “You are now the sole legal owner of the property.”
I nodded.
“And they’re still in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I said.
He frowned. “That isn’t usually how people say it.”
“I’m not usually people.”
Because the truth was simple.
I didn’t feel like a victim anymore.
Victims wait for someone else to act.
I was done waiting.
My phone buzzed again.