frowned at the screen. What packet?
Before I could answer, my phone rang again. This time it was Renee from the recorder’s office.
Her voice came fast and low. “Leah, do not panic, but Adrian is here.”
My spine straightened. “At the office?”
“He’s at Window Three with a quitclaim deed.”
The diner disappeared around me. I could still see Theo’s hand curled in his sleep and Willa’s pencil resting motionless over a maze on the menu, but everything else blurred.
“A what?”
“A deed transferring Maple Street into an LLC called Vale Design Holdings. Your name is on the signature line.”
It took me a second to understand the sentence. Then all at once, too much of the last six months clicked into place. Adrian asking casual questions about how quickly deeds were recorded. Adrian saying his business needed “cleaner structure.” Adrian leaving a stack of mortgage forms on the counter and telling me to sign when I had time. Adrian insisting that if we leveraged the house properly, we could renovate the carriage shed and triple the property’s value.
“My signature?” I asked.
“Looks off to me,” Renee said. “And he brought a title rep who seems uneasy. I’m stalling on a technicality, but I can’t do that forever.”
I stood so fast my knee hit the table. Theo jerked awake. Willa’s face lifted, all fear and readiness.
“He isn’t trying to make rules for them,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “He’s trying to take the house.”
Delia was at my side before I could even ask. “Need boxes, sweetheart, or the check?”
“Just the check.”
She squeezed my shoulder once and walked away.
Ten minutes later, the children and I were back in the car, heading toward downtown. I drove one-handed and called my sister Mara with the other. She met us in front of the courthouse, hair still damp from a rushed shower, wearing scrub pants and one gold hoop earring.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Later,” I said, passing Theo into her arms and kissing Willa’s forehead. “Take them to your clinic waiting room. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Willa caught my sleeve. “Mom.”
I knelt in front of her. “He does not get to decide who belongs. Do you understand me?”
She searched my face, then nodded. “Okay.”
When I climbed the courthouse steps, I saw Adrian immediately. He stood near the columns in a navy blazer, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on a blue folder held by a woman I didn’t recognize. She was in her forties, sharp bob, low heels, expression clipped into professional discomfort. The folder bore the silver logo of Palmetto Title Services.
Adrian turned at the sound of my shoes on stone. For the first time all morning, his composure cracked.
“Leah,” he said. “Thank God. Tell them we discussed this.”
The woman beside him looked at me, then at him, and I watched her understanding change shape. “You told me your wife was parking the car,” she said.
“I was,” Adrian snapped, then corrected himself. “She was. There was confusion.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Leah Mercer. Whatever paperwork he brought in, I have not signed it.”
The woman passed me the blue folder instantly. “Simone Park, title examiner. Mr. Vale
