She stole my daughter’s birthday present! Stop that girl right now!
Two days later, the sound of a luxury sedan idling in front of my mother’s small, clapboard house shattered the uneasy quiet. I looked out the living room window to see a gleaming black Cadillac, a stark contrast to the modest homes on our street. My stomach churned. It could only be one person.
Jerome Barksdale stepped out, adjusting his expensive suit. He was a local real estate appraiser and notary public, known for his flashy cars and his slicked-back hair. Right behind him, almost like a shadow, was my cousin Deon Dupree, Brenda’s son. Deon, usually so eager for a laugh, kept his eyes on his shoes.
Barksdale carried a slim, leather-bound briefcase. He walked with a confidence that always rubbed me the wrong way, like he knew secrets no one else did.
I met them on the porch. Emma was inside, pretending to read in the living room, but I knew she was listening, her small world once again rattled.
“Marcus Hollis,” Barksdale said, his voice smooth, professional. Too professional. He offered no greeting, no pleasantries.
“Jerome. Deon.” I nodded, my gaze lingering on Deon, who still wouldn’t look up. “What brings you both here?”
Barksdale ignored Deon. He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “I’m here on behalf of Ms. Brenda Dupree. She has formally initiated eviction proceedings for this property.”
My blood ran cold. “Eviction? This is my mother’s house. My house.”
“Not anymore.” Barksdale produced a single sheet of paper, crisp and official. “This is a quitclaim deed, executed by your late mother, Dorothy Hollis, transferring full ownership of this property to Ms. Brenda Dupree.”
He held it out. My eyes scanned the document. It stated the property, valued at $180,000, was transferred. It had my mother’s signature, shaky but recognizable, and below it, Jerome Barksdale’s own notary stamp and signature. The date was clearly visible: two days before my mother’s death.
A wave of nausea washed over me. “This is impossible,” I choked out. “My mother was in hospice. She was unconscious for days before she passed. She couldn’t have signed anything.”
Barksdale just offered a tight, humorless smile. “The document is properly signed and notarized, Mr. Hollis. It is legally binding. You have thirty days to vacate the premises.”
He thrust the eviction notice into my hand. It was cold, official, and threatened legal action if I didn’t comply. My mother’s signature, witnessed by this man, claiming she’d given away her home just before she died.
“Deon,” I pleaded, turning to my cousin. “You know this isn’t right. My mother loved this house. She would never just give it away.”
Deon shifted his weight, still avoiding my eyes. “It’s… it’s all legal, Marcus. Brenda showed us the papers. Grandma Dot wanted to make sure things were settled, you know.”
“Settled?” I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “She was dying! Brenda is lying, and you know it.”
Barksdale merely tapped the eviction notice. “Your personal beliefs don’t change the legal facts, Mr. Hollis. The county recorder’s office already has this deed on file. It’s done.”
He turned and walked back to his Cadillac. Deon mumbled something unintelligible, then hurried after him, getting into the passenger seat.
I stood there, the papers trembling in my hand. Brenda hadn’t just locked me out of my job; she was trying to take my home, my daughter’s inheritance, everything my mother had worked for. And she had Barksdale, with his official-looking stamps and his cold, legal language, to back her up.
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