Chapter 6 - ONE DOLLAR
The option agreement was four pages long.
It granted Whitcomb Garden Holdings LLC the exclusive right to purchase my property for one dollar during a twelve-month period.
The language was dressed in legal phrases designed to make something absurd look ordinary.
Consideration acknowledged.
Rights assignable.
Owner consent confirmed.
At the bottom of the last page sat my name.
And another imitation of my signature.
This one was better.
Whoever had created it had blended features from my old signature with details from the new one.
I stared at it until the letters stopped looking like a name.
"Is this enforceable?" I asked.
Naomi did not give me comfort before facts.
That was why I trusted her.
"A forged agreement is not valid merely because someone recorded it."
"That is not what I asked."
"No."
She looked at the page again.
"It should not be enforceable if it is forged."
"Should not?"
"Recorded documents create notice and can cloud title even when they are fraudulent."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you still own your house."
"But?"
"But if you tried to sell or finance it tomorrow, this document could create a problem until we clear it."
I sat down slowly.
My home had gone from sanctuary to evidence locker in the space of one morning.
Investigator Ortiz enlarged the notary block.
"This was notarized."
Naomi leaned over her shoulder.
"Name?"
"Cynthia Rowe."
I did not recognize it.
"Could be legitimate, could be stolen credentials, could be a careless notary," Ortiz said.
"We'll find out."
I looked at the execution date.
Three weeks earlier.
I had been in Seattle that day for a board meeting.
My calendar, hotel receipt, and airline records could prove it.
"I wasn't even in South Carolina."
Ortiz nodded.
"That helps."
"I can prove where I was."
"Good."
"Then this should be easy."
Nobody answered.
I hated the silence.
"Why isn't this easy?"
Naomi finally spoke.
"Because fraud is easy to commit and slow to unwind."
That sentence stayed with me.
By noon, my kitchen table had become a command center.
Naomi's laptop was open beside stacks of printed contracts.
Investigator Ortiz had left to obtain records.
Deputy Bell had taken the torn document fragment and copies of the access logs.
A locksmith was replacing every exterior cylinder in the house.
I had frozen my credit and added verbal passwords to my financial accounts.
I had also turned off my phone because the messages had become unbearable.
Naomi told me to turn it back on.
"We may need the evidence."
"I don't need one hundred cousins explaining why I am evil."
"You do not need to read them."
"Then what is the difference?"
"The difference is preservation."
I turned it on.
The screen displayed two hundred and seventeen notifications.
I laughed despite myself.
"Apparently I am very popular."
Naomi did not smile.
"Do you have social media?"
"Barely."
"Check it."
I opened the account I mostly used to follow old colleagues and garden designers.
My name had been tagged dozens of times.
The first post I opened came from my aunt Celia.
It showed Brielle sitting in the passenger seat of my parents' SUV, crying with a tissue pressed to her face.
The caption said that a bride had been "evicted from her own wedding venue" by a jealous sister hours before the ceremony.
Another relative had written that I had accepted money to host the event and changed my mind out of spite.
A cousin claimed I was angry because Brielle was getting married before me.
That one earned hundreds of reactions.
I felt heat rise into my face.
"She is telling them I took money."
Naomi looked over.
"Screenshot everything."
"Do I respond?"
"Not emotionally."
"That is not an answer."
"If you respond, we do it once, factually, and without accusing anyone of a crime until the evidence is established."
"She accused me of taking money."
"Then we correct that."
I opened a blank post.
Naomi dictated slowly.
I typed.
For clarity, I never agreed to host today's wedding at my home, never accepted payment for use of the property, and gave written notice before the scheduled event that no access was authorized.
Documents containing a signature I dispute have now been referred to law enforcement and counsel.
I will not discuss an active investigation further.
I read it twice.
It sounded cold.
I felt cold.
I posted it.
Within three minutes, Brielle commented.
LIAR.
Then our mother commented beneath her.
Some things should stay private between family.
I stared at the words.
Naomi did too.
"Interesting," she said.
"What?"
"She did not deny the disputed documents."
I took a screenshot.
At 1:17 p.m., Owen called.
Naomi told me to answer.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"The Harborview Hotel."
"Did you find a room?"
"A ballroom."
His voice sounded exhausted.
"They can fit ninety people if we cut the guest list."
"Then at least you have somewhere."
He was silent.
"Owen?"
"There isn't going to be a wedding today."
I leaned back in my chair.
"Why?"
"Because Brielle refuses to marry me anywhere except your house."
Naomi's eyebrows rose.
"She said the location is part of the marriage."
"That makes no sense."
"I know."
He lowered his voice.
"Delaney, I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth."
"Ask."
"Did you ever tell Brielle she could inherit the house?"
I stared at the phone.
"What?"
"She told me the house was eventually going to be hers anyway."
My skin went cold.
"Why would she say that?"
"She said your parents had an arrangement with you."
"There is no arrangement."
"She said you didn't want children and planned to leave the estate to family."
I stood up.
"I have never said that to her."
"Not even years ago?"
"No."
"Okay."
He sounded sick again.
"What else did she tell you?"
"That you bought the house partly as an investment for the family."
"False."
"That your parents helped finance it."
"False."
"That your father was on the original purchase paperwork."
"False."
Owen exhaled.
"Jesus."
Naomi held out her hand for the phone.
I put it on speaker instead.
"Owen, my attorney is here."
"Fine."
Naomi introduced herself.
"Did Brielle tell you who created Whitcomb Garden Holdings?"
There was a long pause.
"I thought Delaney did."
"Why?"
"Because Brielle said it was her wedding gift."
I felt the room narrow.
"What wedding gift?"
"The event company."
"What event company?"
Owen sounded confused by my confusion.
"She said after the wedding, the property would host luxury events."
Naomi and I stared at each other.
"Owen," I said carefully, "my house is not an event venue."
"I know that now."
"No."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"You don't understand."
"I have never discussed turning it into one."
"Not once."
Owen swore under his breath.
Then he said the sentence that explained the LLC, the option agreement, and why Brielle had refused the hotel ballroom.
May you like
"She already booked three more weddings there."
