Chapter 4 - The Audit
With two weeks remaining before the eviction deadline, I knew I needed to safeguard my financial assets. If my family realized I wasn't backing down, they might resort to property damage or financial sabotage.
I hired an independent certified public accountant and a real estate attorney to conduct a full audit of the property and my business accounts.
On Tuesday afternoon, I met with my attorney, Marcus Vance, in his downtown office. Marcus was a sharp, no-nonsense man in his late fifties with a reputation for fiercely protecting his clients.
He reviewed the documentation I had provided: the property deed, the signed occupancy agreements, the bank statements showing three years of primary property tax payments, and the repair receipts.
"You've handled this remarkably well from a legal standpoint, Savannah," Marcus said, laying the papers flat on his mahogany desk. "The occupancy agreements they signed three years ago are ironclad. They established a clear landlord-tenant relationship. They cannot claim co-ownership, equitable interest, or squatter rights."
"What about the rent they did pay?" I asked. "Can they claim that gave them equity?"
Marcus chuckled. "Eight hundred dollars a month for four adults in a four-bedroom house in this zip code? That barely covers fair-market rental value for a single bedroom. It's considered nominal contribution. Legally, they have no leg to stand on."
"What's the next step if they refuse to leave on June 15th?"
"On June 16th, we file an emergency motion for an Order of Possession at the county courthouse," Marcus explained. "Given the clear documentation, the judge will issue a formal eviction order executed by the county sheriff. They will be given forty-eight hours to vacate, after which the sheriff will physically escort them off the property and lock them out."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I murmured.
"Usually, once people realize the sheriff is going to throw their furniture onto the lawn, they move," Marcus said drily. "However, I advise you to inspect the house immediately. Make sure they aren't damaging the property out of spite."
That evening, I returned home with a video camera.
I walked through the house room by room, documenting the exact condition of the property. I filmed the hardwood floors, the walls, the appliances, and the plumbing fixtures.
When I walked down into the basement, I found Jake sitting on his sofa with three of his friends, drinking beer and playing video games. The air was thick with smoke.
"What are you doing with that camera?" Jake demanded, standing up and blocking my path.
"Documenting the current condition of the basement," I said, continuing to record. "Any damage to the drywall, flooring, or built-in structures will be deducted from your security deposits—or pursued in small claims court if the damages exceed the deposit amount."
"You're fucking insane!" Jake shouted. "Get out of my room!"
"It's not your room, Jake," I said calmly. "It's my property. And smoking inside the house is a direct violation of the lease terms. That's a fifty-dollar fee per instance, logged right now."
One of his friends looked uncomfortable, setting his beer down on the table. "Hey man, maybe we should take this outside."
"Shut up, Dave!" Jake yelled, his face purple with rage. He turned back to me, lowering his voice into a vicious whisper. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you've won. But Dad is looking into a lawyer too. He's going to sue you for back-pay on all the work he did around here!"
"What work?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. " Dad hasn't pulled a weed or held a paintbrush in three years. I hired professionals for the roof, the furnace, and the plumbing. I have the receipts and the cleared checks."
Jake slammed his beer bottle down on the coffee table, sending foam bubbling over the edge. "Get out!"
I finished my recording, backed out of the basement, and locked my bedroom door for the night.
Later that evening, I sat at my desk and pulled up my personal bank statements. I began reviewing the shared expenses from the last thirty-six months. That was when I noticed something odd.
There were several recurring monthly transfers from my secondary checking account—an account I rarely used, which was linked to my old freelance PayPal—that I didn't recognize. Small amounts at first: $150, $200, $300. But over three years, they added up to nearly nine thousand dollars.
The destination account belonged to a private credit card.
An account in my name that I had never opened.
My hands began to shake slightly as I pulled up a full credit report.
There it was. A Visa card opened three years ago, using my social security number and my birthdate. The primary billing address was set to this house.
And the authorized user listed under the main account?
Susan Miller.
My mother hadn't just insulted me. She hadn't just lived off my generosity.
May you like
She had stolen my identity to open a credit card and had been secretly drawing from my secondary bank account to pay down the minimum balances for three years.
The quiet inside me didn't break. It turned to ice.
