Chapter 4 - The Price of a Seat
"You're in Hawaii?" Lena's voice cracked into an incredulous, high-pitched shriek. "We are in the middle of a catastrophic family crisis, and you went on vacation?"
"You told me my presence would create tension, Lena," I said, leaning against the balcony railing with an iced tea in hand. "You said you wanted Thanksgiving to feel sophisticated. I simply respected your wishes."
"You ruined my investment deal!" she screamed. "Arthur was going to write a check for one point two million dollars on Monday! That money would have saved the house, paid off my brand's suppliers, and cleared everything!"
"With what money was Arthur being paid back?" I asked calmly. "With an equity stake in an LLC built on a fraudulent deed you stole from my mortgage lien?"
"It's family equity!" she cried out. "Mom and Dad gave it to me! They wanted me to succeed!"
"Mom and Dad didn't own the equity, Lena," I replied, my voice dropping into that quiet, immovable register that used to terrify my high school debate opponents. "I bought that note from Chase Bank to prevent the sheriff's auction in May. Every square foot of that oak flooring, every shingle on the roof, belongs to my holding trust until the principal and interest are paid in full."
"You promised them time!"
"The six months ended at midnight last night," I pointed out. "I didn't hear from Dad last week. I didn't hear from Mom on Tuesday. The only message I received was an unprovoked text at one in the morning telling me I wasn't refined enough to sit at the table I paid for."
Lena choked back a sob that sounded less like remorse and more like the frantic panic of a trapped grifter.
"Emma... please. If Arthur walks away, my supplier in Los Angeles is going to sue me for breach of contract. I owe eighty-five thousand dollars on personal credit cards for the preliminary packaging run."
"Then you should probably sell your designer bags, Lena," I said. "Or get a job with a steady paycheck like I've had for fifteen years."
"Emma, we are your family!"
"Family doesn't forge quitclaim deeds behind each other's backs to erase a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar debt," I answered.
"If you don't withdraw the notice," she threatened, her tone suddenly turning ugly and venomous, "Dad is going to court on Monday to petition for elder abuse! He's going to tell the judge you coerced them when they were vulnerable!"
I took a slow sip of my iced tea.
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"Tell Dad that Marcy has the full, unedited video recording of the signing at the kitchen table," I said coldly. "Including the part where he laughed about dodging the foreclosure auction while drinking my champagne."
I ended the call before she could scream again.
