“I didn’t call the cops! Get out of my house!”
Sheriff Miller looked at Frank, then looked at me. He saw the red welt on my cheek.
He saw the terrified child in the high chair. “Ms. Miller,” the Sheriff nodded to me.
“Are these the squatters?”
“Squatters?” Linda shrieked. “We’ve lived here for thirty years!”
I reached into my large purse and pulled out a blue legal folder. I threw it onto the dining table.
It landed with a heavy thud, crushing the slice of cake my mother had cut for herself. “Open it,” I said. Karen snatched the folder.
She opened it, her eyes scanning the documents. Her face went pale, then grey. “What… what is this?” Karen stammered.
“Deed of Trust… Phoenix Holdings… Sarah Miller, Sole Proprietor?”
“This isn’t your house,” I announced. The words felt like spitting diamonds—hard, sharp, and precious. “I bought your bad debt three months ago, Mother.
The bank was going to kick you out in April. I saved you. I bought the deed.
I am the landlord.”
My mother dropped the knife. It clattered on the floor. “You… you own the house?”
“I own the roof,” I said, pointing up.
“I own the floor,” I pointed down. “And five minutes ago, you assaulted the landlord and harassed a minor on my property.”
I turned to the Sheriff. “I want them out.
Now.”
“You can’t do this!” Frank roared, stepping toward me. One of the eviction agents stepped in front of him, a wall of muscle. “Sir, step back.”
“This is my home!” Frank yelled.
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