For three years, sixty-eight-year-old Arthur Pendelton worked as a part-time handyman and cleaner for Silas Holloway, an eccentric neighbor who had not set foot outside his coastal Oregon cottage i...
Armed with the stack of forged wire slips, a tangible record of Greg’s deceit, I stormed back to his house. The sun was higher now, casting harsh shadows across his perfectly manicured lawn. I didn’t knock politely this time. I banged on the door, the sound echoing through the quiet afternoon.
Greg opened it, his smile faltering as he saw the papers clutched in my hand. He must have recognized them.
“Arthur, what is it now?” he asked, a hint of annoyance replacing his usual smugness.
“This is what it is,” I growled, thrusting the wire slips towards him. “Eighty-four thousand dollars. Forged. Every month. You’ve been stealing from Silas for five years, haven’t you?”
His eyes darted from my face to the documents, a flicker of something close to panic crossing his features before he quickly masked it. “Those are legitimate payments for services rendered, Arthur. Silas was an old man, forgetful. He trusted me.”
“He trusted you?” I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping me. “He was afraid of everyone. He lived like a hermit. And that’s exactly what you preyed on, didn’t you?”
“Get off my property,” he spat, his voice hardening. “You have no proof of anything.”
“I have proof that this lien is fake. Marcus Finch confirmed it. And I have proof you siphoned Silas’s account. This changes everything, Greg. Lift the freeze on my personal account. Now. Clara needs that money.”
My voice broke on Clara’s name. It was no longer about winning an inheritance; it was about saving my daughter’s life. The Portland specialty medical clinic had called again that morning, their tone polite but firm. No deposit, no admission.
Greg leaned against his doorframe again, but the casual air was gone. His eyes narrowed, calculating. He knew I had him on the fraud. But he also knew something else.
“Listen, Arthur,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. “Let’s be realistic. Your daughter… she’s not doing so well, is she?”
My body tensed. “What are you talking about?”
“The clinic. Their prognosis. It’s… bleak. They told you, didn’t they? That time is of the essence.” He paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I’ve heard things. People talk.”
He took a step closer, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re exhausted, Arthur. And you’re desperate. You just lost eighty-four thousand dollars to me, remember? Now you’re facing half a million in legal fees to fight my lien.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but a tremor ran through it.
“Am I?” he countered, his voice dripping with condescending pity. “I’m offering you a clean way out. Drop your claim to Silas’s estate. And sign over your little property to me, just like I offered yesterday. And I’ll think about letting your personal account go.”
“You won’t think about it,” I said, my voice rising. “You’ll do it right now, or I’ll take this proof of fraud straight to the authorities.”
Greg let out a short, humorless laugh. “And how long do you think that will take, Arthur? Weeks? Months? A fraud investigation, a court case. How much time does Clara have?”
My heart plummeted into my stomach. He was right. The legal system moved at a snail’s pace. Clara didn’t have weeks. She barely had days.
“I’m not lifting anything,” Greg said, his voice flat, final. “Not until you give me that deed. Your daughter won’t make it through the weekend anyway, will she? You’ll be so broken, you’ll practically beg me to take the house.”
He stared at me, his gaze cold, triumphant. “It’s simple math, Arthur. You run out of options, you lose. Just like she will.”
He gave me one last, contemptuous look, then slammed the door shut. I stood there, rooted to the spot, the forged slips rustling in my trembling hand. He was deliberately letting Clara die. That was his game. And for the first time, I felt a terrible, cold rage replace the fear.
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