I opened the document, the stiff paper crackling in the quiet hall.

My eyes scanned down past the legal descriptions of the lot and block numbers.

There was Carl’s full name, *Carl Thomas Morrison*, listed as the sole proprietor of the entire building.

My name was nowhere on the page.

“It’s a fake,” Jake said, stepping closer and squinting at the paper. “He probably printed that at a library.”

From the kitchen doorway, my younger son, Derek, emerged.

He didn’t stand next to Jake.

Instead, Derek kept his distance, looking down at his own sneakers.

“It has the county clerk’s signature, Jake,” Derek whispered.

“Shut up, Derek,” Jake snapped.

I gripped the edges of the deed, feeling the texture of the raised ink under my thumb.

“We signed the quitclaim deed last month, Carl,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You signed it over to me.”

“That photocopy you made me sign when I was on my medication?” Carl asked.

He took one step forward, crossing the threshold of Unit 1A.

Mrs. Patterson took a step closer in the hallway, her broom completely still now.

Mr. Alvarez nodded slowly from his doorway, watching Carl.

“The county court threw that out yesterday morning,” Carl said.

I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my neck.

“This is a forgery,” I said, raising my chin to look him in the eye.

“You can’t just walk in here with a piece of paper and think you own the place.”

“I don’t think I own it,” Carl said. “I know I do.”

He reached into his pocket again, but this time he pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up, illuminating his lined face in the dim hallway.

He tapped the screen once and held it to his ear.

“Send him up,” Carl said into the receiver.

My heart gave a sharp, hard thud against my ribs.