“That’s it,” he said. “They’re done.”
The pages weighed almost nothing.
But they carried everything.
“Now we wait,” he said.
I had no problem waiting.
By late afternoon, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Then a voicemail.
Richard.
“Who the hell is this developer talking about?” his voice snapped through the speaker. “They’re saying there is a legal dispute on the property. That the title is invalid. What did you do?”
I listened without replying.
“You need to call me back now.”
The message ended.
I could picture him pacing the living room, trying to understand how a deal he believed was finished had collapsed.
In his mind, the paperwork was signed.
The sale was secure.
The money was practically his.
Now the developer was telling him the property wasn’t his, the transfer was invalid, and the documents exposed him.
Another message arrived.
This time I answered.
“Harper,” I said.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“I handled the paperwork,” I said.
Silence.
“What paperwork?”
“The kind that reflects reality,” I said.
His breathing quickened.
“Don’t play games with me,” he snapped. “This developer is threatening legal action. He’s saying fraud. Breach of contract. I don’t even understand what he’s talking about.”
“You should read what you signed,” I said.
“I know what I signed,” he shot back.
“No,” I said. “You thought you did.”
Silence again.
For once, he had no control.
“I’ll deal with this,” he said finally. “Just stay out of it.”
“Too late,” I said.
Then I hung up.
I knew what came next.
Confusion.
Panic.
Anger.
Richard didn’t process losing control quietly.
He escalated.
That evening, I returned to the house.
All four of them were waiting in the living room.
Richard paced near the center, jacket off, shirt wrinkled.
