Your family's historic Fifth Avenue estate hasn't belonged to you for thirty years, Eleanor—you are merely my tenant, and your rent doubles on the first of the month, my landlord, Arthur Pembroke...
The euphoria of Marcus’s discovery was short-lived. Arthur Pembroke, it seemed, had eyes and ears everywhere. By dawn, a security alert had flagged the missing notary logbooks from Croft’s office.
My phone rang just after 8 AM. It was Arthur. His voice, usually smooth and modulated, was cold, laced with an icy fury.
“Eleanor,” he began, without preamble. “My office informs me that certain ‘documents’ have been removed from Harrison Croft’s suite. Documents pertaining to your ancestral home, I believe.”
I clutched the phone, my knuckles white. “They’re proof, Arthur. Proof of your fraud.”
“They are stolen property,” he retorted, his voice hardening. “I have already filed an emergency police report accusing your son, Marcus Montgomery, of commercial burglary and grand larceny. The evidence is irrefutable.”
My breath hitched. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, but I would,” Arthur purred, a chilling amusement entering his tone. “And I have. Prosecutors will be preparing an arrest warrant for him. By Monday morning, Eleanor, your son will be in a state holding cell.”
My mind raced, envisioning Marcus, my brilliant, impulsive son, in a jail uniform. Grand larceny. It carried a mandatory minimum prison term.
“What do you want?” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.
“I want the logbooks back. And I want you to sign a complete and irrevocable surrender of your estate.” Arthur’s terms were laid out with brutal clarity. “Sign over your home, walk away, and all charges against Marcus will be dropped. The lawsuits against his firm will vanish. His name will be cleared.”
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. “Fail to comply, and state prosecutors will arrest him by Monday morning. A mandatory ten-year prison term, Eleanor. Think about that.”
The phone line went dead.
I stood there, the receiver still pressed to my ear, the cold plastic mirroring the chill that had spread through my chest. Arthur wasn’t just taking my home; he was demanding my son’s freedom as ransom. The notary logbooks, once a beacon of hope, were now a weapon in Arthur’s hands, pointed directly at Marcus.
I had found the smoking gun, but Arthur had turned it back on my child.
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