Chapter 2 - Dean Locked the Door Before Faye Reached HimDean had never heard his father sound like that.
Marshall rarely shouted.
Even when angry, he became quieter.
That was how Dean knew something was very wrong.
He unbuckled Miles.
The baby immediately reached for him.
Dean lifted his brother awkwardly against his chest.
Miles was heavy now.
Almost too heavy.
But Dean did not complain.
“Come on.”
Faye returned from the hallway.
“Put him down.”
Dean backed away.
“Dad said—”
“I don't care what your father said.”
She moved toward him.
Dean remembered the camera.
It was still live.
“Dad can see you.”
Faye stopped.
Her eyes lifted.
The blue light glowed.
For the first time, Dean saw fear in her face.
Then anger swallowed it.
“You turned that on.”
Dean tightened his arms around Miles.
“I knew how.”
“You little brat.”
Marshall's voice came through the speaker.
“Don't go near him.”
Faye looked upward.
“Marshall, you're making this worse.”
“No. You did that.”
Dean moved toward the hallway.
Faye watched him.
“I need to talk to Dean.”
“No.”
“He's upset.”
“Because you hit his brother.”
“I tapped him.”
Miles began crying again at the sound of her voice.
Marshall heard.
So did Faye.
Her expression tightened.
“Dean, office. Now.”
Dean ran.
The home office was at the end of the hallway.
He carried Miles inside and locked the door.
Then he placed his brother on the carpet.
Miles crawled toward him immediately.
Dean sat with his back against the door.
His hands were shaking.
“It's okay.”
Miles cried.
Dean wiped oatmeal from his cheek with his shirt sleeve.
“Dad's coming.”
He hoped saying it made it true faster.
Outside, Faye's footsteps approached.
“Dean.”
He stayed silent.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Your father is upset because he doesn't understand.”
Dean looked toward the desk.
Marshall's second computer sat there.
The home security dashboard was open.
When Dean had restarted the kitchen camera, the system had awakened several other cameras too.
Front hall.
Back porch.
Driveway.
Faye appeared on the hallway feed.
She stood outside the office.
“Dean.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
That scared him more.
“You know I love you.”
Dean stared at the screen.
She had said something similar two nights earlier when she took his phone.
“I'm trying to help this family.”
“You hit Miles.”
“He wouldn't eat.”
“He's a baby.”
“He's spoiled.”
“He's one.”
Silence.
Then Faye said:
“Your father is going to lose this house anyway.”
Dean's stomach tightened.
“He owns it.”
“Not anymore.”
“You're lying.”
“Ask him when he gets here.”
Her footsteps moved away.
Dean looked at Miles.
The baby had stopped crying.
He was chewing on the edge of Marshall's old leather desk chair.
Dean lifted him away.
“No, buddy.”
Then Dean saw something under the desk.
A suitcase.
Not his father's normal black travel case.
A large gray suitcase.
Partially hidden.
Dean pulled it out.
It was packed.
Children's clothes.
His clothes.
Miles's clothes.
Diapers.
Formula.
Two stuffed animals.
Dean stared.
On top was a folder.
He opened it.
Airline confirmations.
Nashville to Denver.
Tomorrow.
Three passengers.
FAYE HALE.
DEAN HALE.
MILES HALE.
Dean's heart started beating harder.
He picked up the office phone.
Marshall had taught him that even if the cell network failed, the landline used a separate connection.
He called his father.
Marshall answered immediately.
“Dean?”
“Dad.”
“I'm coming.”
“There’s a suitcase.”
“What suitcase?”
“For me and Miles.”
Marshall went silent.
Dean read the ticket.
“We're supposed to go to Denver tomorrow.”
“What?”
“With Aunt Faye.”
“Take pictures.”
Dean used the office tablet.
Photograph.
Ticket.
Suitcase.
Folder.
There were more papers underneath.
A letter from something called Cumberland Child & Family Services.
Dean read only part.
TEMPORARY CARE AUTHORIZATION.
His name.
Miles's name.
Faye's name.
And Marshall's signature.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“There's a paper saying Aunt Faye can take care of us.”
“What paper?”
Dean read the title.
Marshall nearly drove onto the shoulder.
“I never signed that.”
Dean stared at the signature.
“It looks like yours.”
“I don't care what it looks like.”
“What do I do?”
“Put everything back exactly where you found it.”
Dean did.
“Then stay locked in the office.”
“Okay.”
“Is there water?”
“Yes.”
“Snacks?”
“Yes.”
“Keep Miles with you.”
Dean looked toward the security dashboard.
Faye was in the kitchen again.
Laptop open.
She was typing quickly.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“She opened the computer again.”
Marshall was already using the camera app.
“I see her.”
The laptop screen was harder to read from the ceiling camera now.
But Marshall could see enough.
A digital-signature platform.
An email.
Faye typed.
He knows. Delay him. I need confirmation the funds cleared.
She sent it.
Marshall's stomach turned.
This was not just a real-estate transaction.
Money had already moved.
He called Grant Weller.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Grant had been Marshall's attorney since Marshall was twenty-seven.
He handled company contracts.
Estate documents.
Lillian's probate after she died.
The house.
Everything.
Marshall called Grant's office.
His assistant answered.
“Weller & Price.”
“It's Marshall Hale.”
A pause.
“Oh. Mr. Hale.”
“Put Grant on.”
“He's unavailable.”
“Tell him it's about Willow Crest.”
Another pause.
“I believe Mr. Weller is in a closing.”
Marshall felt cold.
“For what property?”
“I can't disclose—”
“My property?”
Silence.
Marshall ended the call.
He called the Williamson County recorder's office next.
He gave the address.
The clerk searched.
“I see a deed submitted electronically this morning.”
Marshall nearly stopped breathing.
“Submitted by whom?”
“Weller & Price.”
“Has it recorded?”
“Looks like it was accepted at 10:12 a.m.”
Marshall checked the dashboard clock.
12:46 p.m.
His house had apparently changed ownership more than two hours ago.
“To whom?”
The clerk read:
“Cedar Vale Residential Holdings LLC.”
Marshall had never heard of it.
“What sale price?”
There was another pause.
“Two million one hundred thousand.”
Marshall almost laughed.
The house and land were worth at least four.
Probably more.
“I didn't sell it.”
“Sir, you'll need an attorney.”
“My attorney filed it.”
The clerk went quiet.
That sentence sounded as bad aloud as it felt.
Marshall called another lawyer.
Not Grant.
A woman named Elise Carter, who had represented his company in a dispute years earlier.
He told her only the essential facts.
She interrupted.
“Marshall, do not confront anyone physically. Preserve every recording. Do not delete anything. Send me the deed number.”
“I want my house back.”
“If your signature was forged or authority was fabricated, we have options. But I need documents.”
“My children are inside.”
“Then children come first. Property second.”
Marshall knew that.
But the two were suddenly connected.
Faye had said they wouldn't be there much longer.
Suitcases were packed.
Tickets existed.
A fake care authorization existed.
Someone had prepared for Marshall's children to disappear from the house immediately after title changed.
Marshall pressed harder on the accelerator.
Then Dean called again.
His voice was barely a whisper.
“Dad.”
“What happened?”
“Aunt Faye is talking to somebody.”
“Where?”
“Outside your office.”
Marshall heard Faye through Dean's phone.
“Yes. Tomorrow is too late.”
Pause.
“No, Marshall is coming now.”
Another pause.
Then:
“I don't care. Get the children out before he gets here.”
Dean stopped breathing.
So did Marshall.
And then a man's voice answered from the hallway.
Not through the phone.
Inside the house.
May you like
“Faye?”
Someone else had just arrived.
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