Chapter 3: The Room Upstairs
We didn't go home that night.
I drove us to a hotel near the hospital because Amy refused to walk through our front door.
Frederick slept in the back seat.
The city lights slid across the windshield.
Neither of us spoke.
My mother's message stayed open on my phone.
*Remember what I told you about the house.*
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
When we reached the hotel, Amy stood beside the elevator holding Frederick.
I took our bags.
“You should sleep.””
She nodded.
“You too.””
“I can't.””
“Neither can I.””
The elevator doors opened.
We stepped inside.
Just before the doors closed, Amy said quietly, “Connor?””
“Yeah?””
“Your mother knows things about this house that you don't.””
The doors shut.
The next morning, I went back alone.
I needed documents.
I needed answers.
Most of all, I needed to know what Teresa believed she owned.
The house was quiet when I entered.
The balloons from Frederick's party were still floating near the ceiling.
One had lost enough air to hang sideways.
A paper crown lay crushed beneath the coffee table.
The cake I had brought was still on the kitchen counter.
Nobody had touched it.
I stared at the words on top.
*HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, FREDDIE!*
Then I opened the refrigerator.
Almost everything was gone.
Not spoiled.
Gone.
The milk.
The fruit.
The baby food.
Even the leftovers Amy had prepared for the week.
A note sat on the refrigerator door.
*Since you two decided to leave, I'm not responsible for feeding anyone anymore.*
I crumpled it.
Then I heard footsteps upstairs.
I looked up.
“Mom?””
No answer.
I walked upstairs.
Teresa stood at the end of the hallway holding a cardboard box.
She looked surprised to see me.
Then her expression changed.
“You came back.””
“This is my house.””
She smiled.
“That's exactly what we're going to discuss.””
I pointed at the box.
“What are you doing?””
“Packing.””
“For what?””
“My things.””
“You're leaving?””
She laughed.
“You wanted me gone.””
“I want you to stop controlling my family.””
“That woman is destroying you.””
“My wife?””
“Yes.””
I stared at her.
“She spent your son's birthday washing dishes.””
“Because she refused to help.””
“She was holding a sick baby.””
“She exaggerates.””
“You told her she couldn't take him to the doctor.””
Teresa rolled her eyes.
“I told her to wait.””
“You had no right.””
“I've done everything for you.””
“You keep saying that.””
“Because it's true.””
She set the box down.
“Do you know how much money I put into this house?””
“Yes.””
“No, you don't.””
She stepped closer.
“Your father left me money.””
I blinked.
“What does Dad have to do with this?””
Her face hardened.
“You never asked.””
“Asked what?””
She walked toward the staircase.
“Come upstairs.””
I followed.
She stopped outside the small room at the end of the hall.
It had always been locked.
I had assumed it was where she kept old belongings.
Teresa pulled a key from her pocket.
“Why is this locked?””
“Because I needed privacy.””
She opened the door.
Dust hit my nose.
The room was filled with boxes.
Old photographs.
Bank statements.
Folders.
A metal filing cabinet.
And on the wall was a framed copy of the original property deed.
I stepped closer.
My name was there.
So was Amy's.
Then I saw Teresa's name.
Not as an owner.
As a lender.
My stomach dropped.
“You lied to me.””
Teresa crossed her arms.
“I protected you.””
“You told me the money was a gift.””
“It was conditional.””
“Conditional on what?””
She pointed at the filing cabinet.
“Ask yourself why your father wanted this house.””
I opened the first drawer.
Inside were documents dating back more than twenty years.
Insurance papers.
Tax records.
Bank statements.
And then I found something with my father's name on it.
I pulled it out.
The paper was yellowed at the edges.
At the top:
*PRIVATE FAMILY TRUST*
I read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
Then the third.
My hands went cold.
“What's this?””
Teresa didn't answer.
I looked at her.
“Why is Dad's name on a trust connected to this house?””
She sighed.
“Because your father bought this property before you were born.””
“What?””
“He wanted it to stay in the family.””
“Then why did you tell me you paid for it?””
“I paid for the renovation.””
“That isn't the same thing.””
“No.””
She looked toward the window.
“It's not.””
I pulled another document from the folder.
This one was newer.
Five years old.
My signature appeared on the bottom.
I frowned.
I had never seen it before.
“What is this?””
Teresa's eyes narrowed.
“The refinancing agreement.””
“I never signed this.””
“You did.””
“No.””
“You don't remember everything you sign.””
“I remember refinancing my house.””
Her silence answered me.
I looked at the signature again.
It was mine.
But there was another signature beneath it.
Amy's.
And beside both signatures was a handwritten date.
The date was two weeks before our wedding.
I felt dizzy.
“What did we sign?””
Teresa finally spoke.
“A document giving me authority to intervene if the property was at risk.””
“Risk from what?””
“Debt.””
“We had no debt.””
“You did.””
I turned toward her.
“What debt?””
She didn't answer.
Instead, she opened the filing cabinet herself and pulled out a bank statement.
My name.
A large withdrawal.
My account.
My blood ran cold.
“I never made this.””
Teresa folded the paper.
“You don't remember?””
“No.””
“Then maybe you should ask your wife.””
I stared at her.
“My wife?””
“She knows.””
I stepped closer.
“You're lying.””
“Am I?””
She smiled.
“Ask her who paid off your debt before you bought this house.””
I couldn't breathe.
I grabbed the document.
“Why would Amy know?””
“Because she asked me for help.””
“With what?””
Teresa walked past me.
“That's the part she never told you.””
I followed her into the hallway.
“Mom.””
She kept walking.
“Mom!””
She stopped.
I held up the paper.
“What happened before Amy and I bought this house?””
Teresa turned around.
For the first time since I'd known her, she looked almost afraid.
Then she said something that made no sense.
“Your wife didn't marry you for the house.””
I stared.
“What?””
“She married you because she thought she was protecting you.””
“Protecting me from what?””
Teresa's face went pale.
Before she could answer, her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Then at me.
The name displayed there was one I hadn't seen in years.
*DANIEL BRADLEY.*
My father's name.
My father had been dead for eight years.
Teresa didn't answer.
The phone kept ringing.
And then a second phone began ringing from inside the locked room.
I turned slowly.
There was a small black phone sitting beneath the stack of documents.
Its screen was glowing.
May you like
Incoming call:
*AMY.*
