Chapter 23 - Derek Came Back to the Building
The first time Derek violated the court restrictions, he claimed it was an accident.
The second time, nobody believed him.
Westbridge’s accounts were under monitoring, but the building still operated.
Tenants paid rent.
Repairs happened.
An independent property manager handled daily issues while the ownership dispute continued.
Then Derek appeared at the building on a Thursday evening.
He told the manager he needed personal files from the basement office.
She refused him entry.
He shouted.
A tenant recorded part of it.
Within hours, the video reached the same neighborhood pages where he had once attacked me.
I did not watch it.
Maya did.
“You’re getting healthier,” she said.
“I’m getting tired.”
“That too.”
The real problem was what Derek wanted.
According to the property manager, he repeatedly mentioned “old records.”
Investigators had already collected relevant files.
But nobody knew whether he believed something remained.
Then Elena called Priya.
She remembered a locked metal cabinet in the basement.
Derek used to keep older tenant files there.
The property manager confirmed it still existed.
The court authorized access with counsel present.
I was not invited.
Thank God.
Two days later, Priya called.
“They found documents involving you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course they did.”
Not originals.
Copies.
Printouts of my tax return.
My license.
Old family emails.
There was also a handwritten page listing possible ways to establish my consent to future transactions.
One line read:
Carol can confirm family approval if necessary.
I felt sick.
“He planned to use Mom?”
“Possibly.”
“Did Mom know?”
“There is no evidence she did.”
That distinction mattered.
A year ago, suspicion would have swallowed it.
Now I asked for proof before deciding who had betrayed me.
There was more.
The cabinet contained draft letters supposedly signed by investors authorizing transfers.
Several signatures were questionable.
Dad’s name appeared on one.
Aaron’s on another.
The case expanded again.
That evening, Dad came over.
He sat at my table with both hands wrapped around coffee.
“Your mother is blaming herself.”
“Mom blaming herself doesn’t help investigators.”
“I told her.”
I smiled slightly.
“Good.”
Dad looked tired.
“I keep thinking about that list.”
The spreadsheet.
Conservative, trusts family.
“That line about me.”
“You mean Derek’s note?”
“Yes.”
Dad stared at the mug.
“I always thought trusting family was a good thing.”
“It can be.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
I sat across from him.
“Trust isn’t the mistake.”
He looked up.
“Refusing to update trust when evidence changes is the mistake.”
He smiled faintly.
“Definitely sounds like Priya.”
“I’m becoming unbearable.”
“You’ve always been a little unbearable.”
I threw a napkin at him.
For a moment, we were simply father and daughter.
Then his phone rang.
Mom.
He answered.
Her voice was loud enough that I heard panic.
Someone was outside their house.
Dad stood.
“What?”
A car had been parked across the street for forty minutes.
Mom thought it might be Derek.
My heart kicked hard.
“Call the police,” I said.
Dad did.
We drove over only after officers arrived.
The car was gone.
A neighbor’s doorbell camera captured the license plate.
It did not belong to Derek.
It belonged to a private investigator.
The next day, Derek’s attorney confirmed that a licensed investigator had been hired to locate potential witnesses and assets related to the civil case.
Legal.
Maybe.
Comforting?
Absolutely not.
Priya advised my parents to document every contact and avoid engagement.
Mom installed cameras.
Dad changed locks.
For the first time, my mother understood how it felt when someone else treated access to your life as something they were entitled to take.
I hated that she had to learn it that way.
But I also noticed what she did not do.
She did not call me demanding I fix it.
She called her attorney.
She called police.
She called Dad.
Later she texted me:
We’re okay. You don’t need to come over.
I stared at the message.
You don’t need to come over.
Such a simple sentence.
A year earlier, every crisis in my family had contained an invisible assignment with my name on it.
Now my mother had given me something I had almost never received from her.
Information without obligation.
I replied:
May you like
Glad you’re safe. Love you.
Then I put down my phone.
