“You can stay down there all night for all I care,” I shouted through the wood. “It doesn’t change anything.”

I walked back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

I didn’t need him to sign the equity papers today.

He thought he was safe down there in his little brick bunker, surrounded by his father’s old tools.

He thought he could just wait me out until his lawyer called the police for him.

He didn’t know about the paperwork Jake had delivered to the Chase branch on Flatbush Avenue yesterday morning.

He didn’t know about the signature I had spent three nights practicing on his old tax documents.

I picked up my cup of cold coffee and took a sip.

My phone vibrated in my palm, a bright blue light illuminating the dark wood of the table.

It was an alert from the bank.

I tapped the screen with my thumb.

The message was from the Chase branch manager on Flatbush Avenue.

*The power of attorney document has been verified,* the text read.

*All individual accounts under Carl Morrison have been temporarily restricted pending trust transfer.*