Chapter 6 - The Mysterious Phone Call
Two weeks passed in total, eerie silence.
Without the daily drip of passive-aggressive texts, without the sudden Friday emergencies requiring three-hundred-dollar wire transfers, my life began to assume a strange, peaceful rhythm. My bank account balance didn't fluctuate wildly. I cooked dinners in my own kitchen without the dread of an evening phone call demanding money for an unexpected heating bill.
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon in late January, my corporate desk line rang.
The display showed a local area code, but the number was unfamiliar. I picked up the receiver. "Meredith Collins, Logistics."
"Good afternoon, Miss Collins. My name is Mark Henderson. I'm with First American Title and Escrow."
I paused, setting my pen down. "Yes, Mr. Henderson. What can I do for you?"
"I apologize for reaching out to your corporate office, but I’ve been trying to locate you regarding the property at 414 Oak Ridge Road. The county records list you as a historical interested party and primary guarantor on a release lien from four years ago, but the contact number we have on the old title jacket was disconnected."
"Oak Ridge Road?" My senses sharpened instantly. "That's my parents' house. Is there an issue with the property?"
"Well, that's what we're trying to determine," Henderson said, the sound of paper shuffling over the wire. "We’re currently conducting a title search and underwriting review for an expedited cash-out refinance and simultaneous transfer application filed by a Mrs. Brooke Collins-Taylor."
My spine went rigid against my office chair. "A refinance? By Brooke?"
"Yes, ma'am. She’s applied to pull out three hundred and ten thousand dollars in accumulated equity to clear several outstanding secondary obligations and fund an LLC. However, during the schedule B review, our underwriting team flagged an unresolved signature lien dated four years ago under your name—specifically, an eighty-five-thousand-dollar personal indemnity instrument tied to the municipal tax judgment and foreclosure avoidance package."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Mr. Henderson, what are you talking about? That house belongs to my parents, Arthur and Evelyn Collins. Brooke lives four miles away in a rental townhome."
There was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the line.
"Miss Collins... who told you your parents own 414 Oak Ridge Road?"
My hand gripped the plastic receiver until my fingers turned white. "They've lived there for thirty years. Four years ago, the house was facing a foreclosure sale from the primary mortgage lender. I took out a personal signature loan for eighty-five thousand dollars to cure the default and pay off the back taxes. I’ve been paying the monthly mortgage subsidy ever since."
Henderson let out a low, slow whistle. "Miss Collins, I don't know what you were told, but your parents haven't owned that property in nearly four years."
The room seemed to tilt. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with sickening intensity. "What do you mean?"
"According to the county registry of deeds, in November of four years ago—the exact week your signature loan proceeds were disbursed to the county escrow account—a quitclaim deed was recorded. Arthur and Evelyn Collins conveyed one hundred percent of the fee simple title for 414 Oak Ridge Road to Brooke Collins-Taylor for the nominal consideration of ten dollars."
I couldn't breathe. The air in my lungs turned to ash. "They... they gave the house to Brooke?"
"Yes, ma'am. With a reserved life estate for your parents, which was subordinated to any future primary encumbrance Brooke took out. In fact, Brooke took out a two-hundred-thousand-dollar primary mortgage on the property two weeks after the deed was transferred. The money you’ve been paying every month? That weren't payments to save your parents from eviction. You’ve been servicing the debt on Brooke’s mortgage."
My vision tunnelled until all I could see was the small digital clock on my office phone.
Four years.
Eighty-five thousand dollars of my own personal debt.
Four thousand dollars a month.
Forty-eight thousand dollars a year.
All of it—every single dime—had not been keeping my elderly parents in their home. It had been paying the mortgage on an asset secretly owned by my younger sister, while they all sat in the living room, smiling at me, eating my food, and teaching Brooke’s daughter that I was their personal garbage can.
"Miss Collins? Are you still there?"
"Mr. Henderson," I heard myself say, though my voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of an icy well. "Do not clear that title. Do not sign off on that lien."
"Miss Collins, we can't finalize anything without a formal release of your indemnification anyway, but—"
"I will have an attorney contact you by four o'clock today," I said. "Send every single document you have on that property to my personal email address immediately."
I hung up the phone.
May you like
The office was quiet. Outside my window, semi-trucks were maneuvering into the loading bays, their reverse beepers sounding a steady, monotonous rhythm. The world was moving forward, entirely indifferent to the fact that the ground beneath my feet had just ceased to exist.
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