Chapter 3 - THE RETURN TO MASON TERRACE
Four days later, the front door of 412 Mason Terrace unlocked.
I was sitting in the library on the second floor, behind the mahogany desk my grandfather had shipped from London in 1952. The room was dark, lit only by a single brass desk lamp.
Downstairs, I heard Victor’s familiar footsteps—heavy, slightly deliberate, accompanied by the slow shuffle of someone still recovering from abdominal surgery.
“Sarah?” he called out, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged entrance hall. “Sarah, where are you? Why weren't you at the hospital when the transport van picked me up?”
He sounded annoyed, the classic tone of a man who expected his tea to be hot and his slippers ready at the door.
I didn't answer. I simply sat behind the desk, watching the door of the library.
His steps came up the grand oak staircase, one painful stair at a time. He stopped at the landing, breathing heavily, before turning the corner into the library.
He was wearing his grey cashmere sweater and dark slacks. He looked remarkably healthy—his skin clear, his eyes bright, fueled by the young, vigorous organ resting in his right iliac fossa.
When he saw me sitting in the dark, he frowned, resting his hand against the doorframe for support.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” he asked, reaching for the light switch. “And why did you leave your wedding ring on my nightstand at the hospital? The nurses thought you lost it. I had to put it in my pocket so nobody stole it.”
He pulled the platinum band from his pocket and tossed it onto the mahogany desk between us. It bounced twice, making a sharp, metallic sound before coming to a rest beside a thick manila folder.
“You left me alone in that hospital, Victor,” I said quietly.
He rolled his eyes, taking a heavy step into the room and dropping into one of the leather armchairs facing the desk. “Oh, don't start with the dramatic act, Sarah. You were discharged early. I had post-op consultations, drain removals, and medication adjustments to deal with. I expected you to at least drive me home.”
“I was busy,” I said.
“Busy doing what? Restoring another dusty seventeenth-century ledger?” He scoffed, adjusting his posture with a wince. “Look, we need to talk about the house anyway. Since I’m going to be working from home for the next three months during my recovery, I’m having some adjustments made. I’ve invited Rita from the office to come by tomorrow to help me set up a secondary administrative workspace in the west guest room.”
I looked at him, amazed by the sheer, unadulterated hubris of the man. He wasn't even trying to hide her existence anymore; he was simply introducing her into my home under the thin guise of a corporate assistant, testing how much emotional weight I would carry before breaking.
“Rita,” I repeated.
“Yes, Rita,” he said sharply. “She’s been managing my case files while I’ve been sick. She’s an efficient girl. In fact, she’s taking a few days off from the firm to make sure I don't overexert myself while you’re off doing... whatever it is you do.”
He leaned back, resting his arms on the leather chair.
“Also, Sarah, I think it’s time we discussed our long-term arrangements. This house is far too large for just the two of us. I was thinking we could refinance it—take out some equity—and perhaps look into acquiring a smaller property for you down in Rhode Island or New Hampshire. Somewhere quiet.”
He said it so smoothly, so casually, as if he were suggesting a change in our dinner reservations.
“A smaller property for me,” I said.
“Well, yes,” he said, looking around at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Let’s be realistic, Sarah. Our marriage has been running on routine for the past five years. You know it, and I know it. Once my recovery is complete, I think it’s best if we separate cleanly. You have your trust, and now that we’ve consolidated the title here, I can manage the Brookline estate independently.”
Consolidated the title. He had used the exact legal phrase he thought he had successfully forged eleven days ago.
I reached out my hand and slowly picked up the manila folder sitting beside my wedding ring.
“You mean the quitclaim deed you filed with the Norfolk County Registry eleven days ago?” I asked softly.
Victor’s body froze. The color in his face—my healthy, oxygenated blood—instantly drained out, leaving him looking as pale as he had when he was on dialysis.
“What are you talking about?” he stuttered, his voice losing its comfortable authority.
“The document with my forged signature, Victor,” I said, opening the binder and sliding a crisp, high-resolution copy across the desk toward him. “The one where Marcus Vance signed his notary seal, claiming I sat in his office on October 4th and freely surrendered fifty percent of my ancestral home to you.”
Victor stared at the document. His lips parted, but no sound came out for several seconds. His mind, trained in civil litigation defense, was frantically calculating every possible escape route.
“Sarah... that was... that was just a legal formality,” he stammered, his hand twitching on the armchair. “I asked my legal assistant to draft a standard joint tenancy agreement months ago. You must have signed it during the pre-op paperwork rush and forgotten!”
“I never signed it, Victor,” I said, leaning forward into the warm glow of the desk lamp. “And Marcus Vance never saw me. I was in a sterile isolation ward at Mass General on October 4th at 2:10 PM—the exact time listed on this notary seal. I have seven nurses and two doctors who have already provided sworn affidavits confirming I was under IV sedation at that hour.”
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Victor reached for the paper, his fingers trembling. “Sarah, let’s not turn this into a hysterical accusation. We can fix this. If you don't want the joint tenancy, we can simply revoke the filing—”
“We can’t revoke it, Victor,” I interrupted. “Because Daniel Vance filed a Criminal Fraud Injunction with the Norfolk County District Attorney’s office at 4:00 PM today.”
