The heavy padlock, sliced seconds ago, lay in two pieces on the damp concrete floor. Victoria’s security guards, two men built like oak trees, were still focused on the main basement door, their backs to me. One had a hand on his radio.
I didn’t wait.
“Now, Mama Nora,” I whispered, pushing Eleanor gently from the iron-barred room.
Her 82-year-old frame was surprisingly light, fueled by a panicked urgency. The first guard turned, his eyes widening as he saw us.
I ducked behind a stack of old campaign signs, pulling Eleanor with me. The air smelled of mildew and forgotten ambition.
“They’re escaping!” the guard yelled into his radio.
I heard Victoria’s sharp voice from upstairs. “Find them! Do not let them leave this property!”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a drumbeat of adrenaline. I steered Eleanor towards a smaller, forgotten service door tucked behind a wall of ancient filing cabinets. My father had shown me that exit when I was a kid.
It groaned open, leading to an overgrown path behind the manor, shrouded by thick azalea bushes. We slipped out, the cool Atlanta night air a stark contrast to the stifling basement. Eleanor gasped for breath, but her grip on my arm was surprisingly firm.
“We need a car,” I murmured, pulling my phone from my cargo pocket.
My brother, Marcus, answered on the second ring, his voice tight with worry. “Charlotte? Where are you?”
“Outside the manor. We’re clear. Come get us.”
Fifteen minutes later, Marcus’s beat-up sedan screeched to a halt at the corner of a dark, tree-lined street. He jumped out, his lean frame moving with an urgency I hadn’t seen since our college days.
He quickly helped Eleanor into the backseat, his hand brushing her trembling arm.
“Mama Nora, are you alright?” he asked, his voice softer than I expected.
She nodded, slumping against the worn upholstery, her eyes fixed forward. The ordeal had clearly taken its toll.
As Marcus pulled away from the curb, I saw a patrol car’s flashing lights approaching the manor in the rearview mirror. Victoria hadn’t wasted any time.
Marcus’s studio apartment was in a discreet brick building downtown, indistinguishable from the other units. Inside, it was a organized chaos of news clippings, legal pads, and a faint smell of instant coffee.
He led Eleanor to a worn armchair. “Water, Mama Nora?”
She nodded, sipping slowly from the glass he handed her. Her eyes, though tired, seemed to hold a flicker of something new, something almost triumphant.
“So, what’s going on, Marcus?” I asked, my voice low, as he moved to his cluttered desk. “Victoria said she had power of attorney, said Mama Nora had dementia.”
Marcus turned, a stack of documents in his hand. The overhead light glinted off his glasses.
“She’s been lying, Charlotte. About everything.”
He spread a series of papers across his desk: property deeds, tax records, and what looked like official city council minutes. My stomach clenched.
“While you were deployed,” he explained, pointing to a document. “Victoria used a shell company to acquire a master lease on the DuBose estate. But she didn’t stop there.”
He tapped a finger on a signature. “These are new deeds. Transfer of ownership. Signed by Victoria Barksdale-DuBose and witnessed by a city notary, Leland Gaines.”
“Transfer of ownership?” My voice was barely a whisper. “The whole estate?”
“Yes,” Marcus said, his jaw tight. “And here’s the kicker.”
He pushed a faded printout towards me. “These land deeds were forged. Backdated, too. They show the DuBose legacy property being sold for just a fraction of its value—two hundred thousand dollars, maybe—to a company Victoria controls. It’s all tied to new zoning changes pushed through city council.”
My eyes scanned the document. Victoria had not only taken over our home but had begun selling off our heritage. The twist was a gut punch.
“Council kickbacks,” I murmured. “This is a political play.”
Marcus nodded grimly. “Exactly. She’s running for City Council on a platform of ‘urban renewal.’ This estate is prime real estate. She’s trying to flip it for millions after these zoning changes go through.”
Eleanor, from her armchair, watched us, her expression unreadable.
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