Part 3: The Uninvited Owners
The brass lock gave way with a loud, metallic crack. My father pushed the heavy oak door open, stepping onto the polished hardwood floor of the entryway as if he owned the entire building. Chloe walked in right behind him, kicking off her heels and running her fingers over the sleek keys of my grandfather’s Steinway piano.
“God, this place is massive,” Chloe giggled, pulling out her phone to film a video tour for her social media. “We can definitely use the estate payout to clear my credit lines and buy that townhouse in Beacon Hill. Clara doesn’t even appreciate living here. She spends all her time working anyway.”
“Pack her clothes into the black contractor bags in the hallway,” my father instructed the locksmith, pointing toward my bedroom. “Anything she left behind gets moved into a storage unit across town. When she gets back from her fake trip, she won’t even have a key to get past the front lobby.”
“What a tragic loss,” a calm, familiar voice echoed from the hallway.
My mother froze, a stack of vintage leather-bound books slipping from her hands and crashing loudly against the floor. My father spun around, his face turning an instant, shocking shade of pale as I stepped through the broken doorway, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and my phone in the other.
“Clara?” Chloe stammered, her iced matcha slipping from her fingers and splattering across the rug. “What… what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Paris!”
“I never bought the ticket, Chloe,” I said, stepping past the terrified locksmith, who was already stepping back into the hallway with his hands raised. “And you’re currently standing inside a crime scene.”
To see the police arrive and expose the forged power of attorney, continue reading below for Part 4...
