CHAPTER 1: The Birthday That Wasn't

The buyer's name was Gerald Fitch.

Daniel pulled up the record on his laptop and turned the screen toward us.

Gerald Fitch, fifty-three, a property investor with a registered LLC out of Murfreesboro.

Three prior residential purchases in the greater Nashville area in the past four years.

"He's not a random buyer," Daniel said.

"Someone introduced him to this property specifically."

"Teresa," I said.

"Almost certainly.

The question is whether Fitch knew the transfer was fraudulent.

If he did, he's exposed.

If he didn't, he's a victim of the scheme too — but either way, the sale cannot proceed.

The title is clouded the moment we file the forgery challenge."

"Can he come after us?" Amy asked.

"He has no claim.

He hasn't paid.

There's no completed transaction.

But I'd like to know who connected them." Daniel closed the laptop.

"Connor, I need you to think carefully.

Did your mother ever mention anyone named Fitch?

Any conversation about the house's value, about selling, about what it would be worth on the market?"

I sat back.

There was something.

A dinner, maybe eight months ago.

Teresa had made a comment — something about the neighborhood changing, about how the house would sell well if we ever decided to move.

I had brushed it off.

I thought she was making conversation.

"She said something once," I told Daniel.

"About the house being worth a lot.

I didn't think anything of it."

"When was this?"

"Eight, nine months ago."

Daniel wrote the date range down.

"That's when this started," he said.

"Not last night.

Not six weeks ago when Colt came to the house.

Eight or nine months ago."

Amy exhaled slowly beside me.

"She was planning this before Frederick was born," Amy said.

"Possibly before the pregnancy," Daniel said.

"I want phone records.

If Teresa and Fitch were in contact before the deed transfer was filed, that establishes a conspiracy timeline."

I nodded.

"Whatever you need."

We left his office at four o'clock.

The drive home was quiet.

Frederick slept in his car seat.

Amy watched the road.

Halfway home, she spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever — even once — think about selling the house?

Moving somewhere else?"

"No," I said.

"Never."

"Teresa told me you were thinking about it.

She said you'd mentioned it to her.

That you wanted something smaller, closer to the job sites, and that you were going to tell me once the decision was made." Amy's voice was steady but careful.

"She said I should start getting used to the idea."

I kept my eyes on the road.

"She told you that."

"About four months ago.

I didn't say anything to you because — I don't know.

I thought maybe you were waiting for the right moment.

I thought maybe she knew something I didn't."

I pulled into our driveway and stopped the car.

"Amy.

I have never once thought about selling this house."

She nodded slowly.

"I know that now."

"She was isolating you," I said.

"Making you think I had plans I hadn't told you.

Making you feel like an outsider in decisions about your own home."

"It worked," Amy said quietly.

"For a while, it worked."

I turned off the engine.

Frederick stirred in his car seat, made a small sound, went back to sleep.

"I need to ask you something too," I said.

Amy waited.

"How long has it been this bad?"

She looked at her hands.

"Since about three months after Frederick was born," she said.

"That's when Teresa started coming over every day.

At first I thought she was helping.

Then she started redirecting deliveries.

Telling me what to cook and when.

Moving things in the kitchen.

Telling Frederick's pediatrician she was the primary caregiver when they called."

I went still.

"She told the pediatrician she was the primary caregiver?"

"They called once when you were on-site and I was in the shower.

She answered my phone." Amy looked at me.

"I found out two weeks later when I took Frederick in for his checkup and the nurse asked me to confirm the contact update."

The front door of our house was ten feet away.

I hadn't been inside since the night before.

"Connor," Amy said.

"I need you to know why I didn't tell you sooner."

"You don't have to—"

"I do." She turned to face me fully.

"Every time I thought about saying something, I heard her voice in my head.

Telling me you'd think I was exaggerating.

Telling me you'd choose her.

Telling me that I was the problem — that I was ungrateful, that I didn't understand how families worked, that I was trying to come between a mother and her son." She paused.

"She said it so many times that I started to believe it."

I didn't have a word for what I felt in that moment.

"You are not the problem," I said.

"I know."

"You were never the problem."

"I know that now." Her voice didn't waver.

"But Connor — I need to know that you know it too.

Not just tonight.

Not just because of what happened.

I need to know you see it."

"I see it," I said.

"I see all of it."