She is seventy-eight years old, Jonathan, and room and board in this enclave aren't free, my older sister Victoria said, wiping her manicured nails without looking up from her tablet.
The doorbell chimed with an almost insistent authority, startling my mother. Evelyn, who I had managed to spirit away from Victoria’s direct supervision for a precious few hours, had been quietly resting in the sunroom, sipping tea.
I had tried to warn her about Victoria’s maneuvers, but her pride and long-standing desire for family peace made her hesitant to believe the worst of her own daughter.
“Who could that be, dear?” she asked, her voice frail.
Before I could answer, Victoria swept into the room, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She held the door open wide, revealing Julian St. Clair, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, a slick leather portfolio tucked under his arm. He exuded an air of self-importance.
“Mama, Jonathan,” Victoria announced, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Julian is here to finalize the… arrangements.”
Julian St. Clair entered, his eyes scanning the opulent room with an avaricious gleam. He barely acknowledged me, striding directly to the large mahogany desk in the corner.
“Mrs. Holloway, Jonathan,” St. Clair began, his voice smooth and condescending. “We’re here to ensure a swift and amicable resolution. Victoria has been most gracious in ensuring your future well-being.”
He opened his portfolio, revealing a stack of documents. “This is a quitclaim deed. It simply transfers the estate into Victoria’s sole stewardship. A formality, really.”
My mother’s hand went to her throat. “Sole stewardship? Victoria, what is he talking about?”
Victoria offered a placating smile. “Just a minor legal update, Mama. To streamline things. It will simplify the estate planning.”
“It simplifies your hostile takeover, Victoria,” I said, stepping between my mother and St. Clair. “You can’t do this.”
St. Clair scoffed. “And you are… who, again? An amateur historian, I believe? This is a legal matter, young man.”
He pushed a pen across the desk toward my mother. “Just sign here, Mrs. Holloway. It will all be over quickly.”
My mother hesitated, her gaze darting between Victoria’s forced smile and my urgent stare. She looked like a trapped bird.
“She won’t be signing anything,” I stated, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “Jonathan, don’t interfere. You’re only making things worse.”
“Am I?” I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my jacket pocket—a printout of the public records Dr. DuBose had sent me just an hour ago. “Mr. St. Clair, perhaps you should attend to your own legal standing before attempting to strong-arm my mother.”
St. Clair chuckled, a dismissive sound. “What nonsense is this?”
“This isn’t nonsense,” I countered, holding out the document. “This is a formal notice from the Georgia Real Estate Commission. It states that your notary certification was quietly suspended in 2021.”
Victoria’s confident smirk faltered. St. Clair’s face, usually so composed, went pale.
“Suspended,” I continued, “for what the report calls ‘repeated instances of fraudulent title land-flips and unethical practices in the Buckhead corridor.’”
St. Clair’s eyes flickered to Victoria, a silent accusation passing between them. He hadn’t expected me to have this information.
“This document,” I said, tapping the paper in my hand, “renders any legal instrument you attempt to notarize, including this quitclaim deed, utterly invalid. A forgery, in fact. With severe penalties for all parties involved.”
Victoria’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She stared at St. Clair, her betrayal evident. He had assured her he was untouchable.
St. Clair quickly gathered his papers, his smooth demeanor cracking. “This is a misunderstanding. I assure you—”
“I assure you, Mr. St. Clair,” I interrupted, “that the police are already en route. I took the liberty of informing them of your unscheduled visit, given your… checkered past with property deeds.”
A faint siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. It might have been a trick of the wind, but the effect was immediate.
Julian St. Clair snatched up his portfolio, his face now a mask of frantic panic. He shot Victoria a venomous glare, then pivoted and bolted from the room, leaving the quitclaim deed scattered across the desk.
Victoria stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock and fury. The siren faded, but the silence St. Clair left behind was deafening. My mother, still gripping her throat, watched the door, a flicker of understanding finally dawning in her eyes.
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