Chapter 2 - THE NAME BESIDE OURS
Frederick’s temperature reached 103.1 before the pediatrician brought it down.
That number erased Teresa from my mind for almost an hour.
Our little boy whimpered against Connor’s chest while the doctor examined his ears, throat, lungs, and hydration.
A viral infection, most likely.
No immediate emergency signs.
Fluids.
Medication.
Close observation.
Return immediately if his breathing changed or he became difficult to wake.
Only after Frederick finally slept did Connor and I look at each other.
My cheek had swollen.
His hands were shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Hitting her.”
I said nothing.
Connor looked down.
“I saw what she did to you and lost control.”
“She hit me. You still chose to hit her.”
“I know.”
That answer mattered.
He didn’t excuse it.
I touched his wrist.
“We deal with that too.”
Then his eyes moved to the briefcase.
Neither of us wanted to open it.
We did anyway.
The first document was a certified copy of a recorded deed involving our property.
Our names appeared near the top.
Connor Bradley.
Amy Bradley.
Then another name.
Bradley Heritage Holdings LLC.
“What is that?” I asked.
Connor frowned.
“My mother has an investment company with a similar name.”
The document indicated that an ownership interest in our mansion had been transferred eight months earlier.
I stared at him.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
“Did I?”
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
Connor was a structural engineer. He read contracts, drawings, permits, and specifications for a living.
He turned the pages carefully.
“There’s a recording stamp.”
“So it’s real?”
“It means something was recorded. It doesn’t tell us whether the underlying transfer was valid.”
The next document looked like a loan agreement.
The amount made my throat tighten.
$1,800,000.
Our address appeared as collateral.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
His voice changed.
Fear entered it.
Connor’s phone buzzed.
Teresa.
He ignored it.
She called again.
Then a message arrived.
You stole private documents from my purse.
Connor photographed the file exactly as we had found it.
Then he replied only once.
Do not contact Amy tonight. Frederick is sick. We will speak through counsel tomorrow.
Another message appeared.
You have no idea what you’re doing.
I felt cold.
Connor looked at me.
“I’m calling Rachel.”
Rachel Sullivan was the real-estate attorney Connor’s engineering firm used for complex development work.
He sent her photographs.
She called back fifteen minutes later.
“Do not confront Teresa about the paperwork yet.”
Connor paced beside Frederick’s hospital bed.
“Why?”
“Because if these copies reflect actual county records, we need to preserve everything before anyone starts correcting, deleting, or explaining.”
“Can my mother transfer my house without me?”
“Normally, no.”
“Normally?”
Rachel paused.
“I see a reference here to authority executed under a prior instrument.”
Connor stopped pacing.
“What instrument?”
“I can’t tell from the copy.”
“Could it be a power of attorney?”
Silence.
Connor’s expression changed.
“A long time ago,” he said slowly, “I gave Mom limited authority while I was working overseas.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Before I met you.”
Rachel’s voice became sharper.
“Find that document.”
Connor looked at the deed again.
For the first time, Teresa having our deed seemed less like a strange family intrusion.
May you like
It looked like she might have found a legal door into our property.
📖 Connor remembered an old document that may have given Teresa access to his affairs, but finding it would decide whether she had exploited a loophole or committed something worse. 👇
