My sister slapped me at Thanksgiving and my parents kicked me out—completely unaware I was on my way to discover they forged my name to steal their house.

The phone buzzed against the laminate table, vibrating in harsh, rhythmic pulses. I picked it up on the second ring.

“Marcus,” I said, my voice hoarse from hours of sitting in the dark.

“Maya,” Marcus Hayes answered without a greeting. His tone was clipped, completely stripped of the warm bedside manner he usually reserved for old college friends. “I pulled the county recorder’s digital database thirty minutes ago. I cross-referenced the deed transfer you sent with the official filing from three weeks ago. It’s real. It’s on the books.”

A cold knot tightened in my gut. “How is that even possible? I hold forty percent of the title. I put eighty thousand dollars of my own life savings into paying off Dad’s second mortgage five years ago so they wouldn’t lose the roof over their heads. You drew up that co-ownership agreement yourself.”

“I know what I drew up,” Marcus said grimly. “And according to the county, you willingly signed a quitclaim deed on November third, relinquishing every square inch of your equity and interest in the property to Lauren Vance, for the grand consideration of zero dollars.”

I let out a harsh, dry breath. “November third. I was in Chicago for a three-day corporate conference on November third. I have hotel receipts, flight stubs, and eight keycard swipes to prove I wasn’t even in the state.”

“Good. Keep every single one of those receipts,” Marcus instructed, the sound of rapid typing coming through the line. “Because whoever did this didn’t just file a rogue piece of paper. This quitclaim was executed with a formal notary stamp, a forged state ID number, and an attestation that you appeared in person at an independent title office on Fourth Street. This isn’t a family spat anymore, Maya. This is felony identity theft, grand larceny, and deed fraud. If Lauren and your parents signed off on receiving this title, they crossed into federal territory.”

I leaned back, staring at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. The red mark on my left cheek had faded into a dull, purplish bruise. “Why would they do this now? Why the rush?”

“That’s the part you’re not going to like,” Marcus said quietly. “There’s a second filing pending. It hasn't closed yet, but it’s sitting in escrow right now. Lauren took out a cash-out refinance on the house. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The expected disbursement date is next Tuesday.”

My jaw clamped shut so hard my teeth ached. Lauren hadn't just wanted to push me out of the family. She was cashing out my blood, sweat, and savings to fund her own vanity—and my parents had helped her do it.