Chapter 2 - PRESLEY’S LITTLE REAL ESTATE COMPANY
I thought Presley’s most profitable business was filming herself opening skincare packages.
I was wrong.
Blue Ridge Residential Partners had existed for eleven months.
Arthur’s investigator found it before lunch.
Presley owned ten percent.
A man named Travis Cole owned forty.
The remaining fifty belonged to an LLC registered in Delaware.
“Who is Travis?” Arthur asked.
“Her boyfriend.”
“The one who sells luxury homes?”
“He calls himself a development consultant.”
Arthur looked at the documents.
“He has three lawsuits.”
“Of course he does.”
One involved an elderly couple who claimed Travis pressured them into selling land below market value.
Another accused one of his companies of hiding environmental information before a resale.
My stomach tightened.
“Presley knows?”
“I don’t know.”
No guessing.
Good.
Then we found an email attached to the purchase contract.
From Travis to Presley:
Once Linda signs, Bridget is irrelevant. Trust issue should die when sale closes.
I stared.
“They know about the trust.”
“Some of it.”
“Then why would they think the sale could close?”
Arthur’s mouth tightened.
“Because someone gave them incomplete documents.”
“Who?”
He turned the page.
Attorney:
Melissa Grant.
I knew that name.
My mother’s divorce lawyer from fifteen years ago.
Melissa had represented Mom when she divorced Presley’s father.
“She’s helping them?”
“Apparently.”
I called no one.
Arthur insisted.
“Do not confront Linda until we preserve records.”
For once, I listened.
Instead, we notified the listing agent.
Her reaction came within seven minutes.
My phone rang.
Mom.
I watched her name flash.
Did not answer.
Then Presley.
Then Mom again.
Twenty-one missed calls before I reached my apartment above the diner where I sometimes stayed between shifts.
Finally, a text.
MOM:
What did you do?
I smiled despite myself.
Not:
What happened?
Not:
There must be a mistake.
What did you do?
I replied:
Asked the owner.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Stop being childish. Call me.
I did not.
That evening Arthur sent formal notice.
Linda Summers’s occupancy rights would terminate in thirty days due to attempted unauthorized sale and prior mortgage effort.
The listing had to be withdrawn immediately.
I expected rage.
What I got was silence.
For almost six hours.
Then Presley posted a video.
I found out because my coworker showed me.
My sister sat in her car crying beautifully.
Mascara intact.
Lighting excellent.
Caption:
When family members choose greed over their own mother.
She never used my name.
She did not need to.
Comments poured in.
Ungrateful daughter.
Money changes people.
Imagine evicting your own mom.
I watched ten seconds.
Then closed it.
My old instinct wanted to defend myself.
Explain the trust.
Explain the listing.
Explain a childhood where Presley received Christmas in July while I worked doubles.
Arthur told me:
“Do not litigate on social media.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I was planning homicide.”
He almost smiled.
“Also discouraged.”
The next morning, the video had two hundred thousand views.
Then someone leaked my workplace.
People began calling the diner.
One customer filmed me serving coffee.
Presley’s followers found my community college records.
My old car.
My apartment.
It became content.
Then one comment appeared repeatedly:
Ask Bridget why Grandma really excluded Linda from the deed.
I froze.
Excluded?
Arthur had never said Nana excluded Mom.
He said she gave her occupancy.
Different.
I called him.
“What did Mom do to Grandma?”
Silence.
“Arthur.”
He sighed.
“Your grandmother instructed me not to tell you unless Linda publicly challenged the trust.”
“She has.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me.”
He asked me to come in.
When I arrived, he placed an old police report on the table.
Twelve years earlier.
Evelyn Summers.
Suspected financial exploitation.
Person of interest:
Linda Summers.
My mother had allegedly taken more than eighty thousand dollars from Nana’s accounts while Nana was recovering from surgery.
And Grandma had never pressed charges.
Instead, she built the trust.
But at the bottom of the file was another name.
Witness:
Bridget Summers.
I stared.
“I never reported Mom.”
Arthur looked at me carefully.
“You did.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“You were nineteen.”
“I would remember.”
May you like
His expression turned grave.
“Then someone made sure you forgot what happened that summer.”
