I closed my eyes. My parents weren’t just desperate because Chloe was in trouble.

They were searching.

“Officer,” I said firmly, “if this is fraud, I want to press charges. And please notify the buyers immediately so they don’t lose money.”

Daniels agreed. “We’ll speak with the Shaws and recommend freezing any transfers. You may also want to consult a civil attorney.”

“I am a civil attorney,” I said.

And the silence on the line suddenly became much heavier.

That afternoon, Hollis emailed me scans of the so-called “power of attorney.” To anyone familiar with legal documents, it was almost absurd. My middle initial was incorrect. The font shifted halfway through the page. And the signature—supposedly mine—looked like a clumsy attempt traced from an old greeting card.

But the most troubling detail was the notary seal: a crisp, official-looking stamp convincing enough to fool a busy office during a hectic day.

I immediately forwarded the documents to a colleague back home—Carla Nguyen, a criminal defense attorney I trusted completely—and asked her to recommend someone known for handling fraud cases aggressively. Within two hours, she connected me with a former prosecutor named Grant Halloway.

Grant wasted no time. “If they forged a power of attorney, that’s serious,” he said. “But first we need to limit the damage. Step one: contact the county register and flag the property. Step two: file an affidavit declaring the transfer unauthorized. Step three: notify the broker, buyer, and escrow agent.”

I spent the entire night working, the time difference turning my hotel room into a command center. Between calls, I opened the security system app connected to the villa.

Two motion alerts had triggered within the last day.

I tapped the video clips.

My parents were standing on the front porch, my mother holding a folder proudly. Chloe stood behind them wearing sunglasses, nervously chewing her nail. Then my father tried using my spare key in the lock before the camera caught him leaning close to the doorbell.

Chloe leaned toward my mother and whispered something the microphone barely captured—but one phrase came through clearly:

“Just sell it. She’ll get over it.”

My vision narrowed. This wasn’t desperation.

It was entitlement.

Grant called again. “Bad news and good news,” he said. “Bad: your parents already signed a listing agreement. Good: it’s invalid if they didn’t have authority. We’ll also notify the licensing board if the brokerage failed to verify—though it sounds like Hollis acted responsibly once he suspected something.”

I stared at the clip of my father twisting my lock. “I want a restraining order,” I said.

Grant’s tone sharpened. “Based on attempted unlawful entry and fraud? Yes, we can pursue that.”

Then my phone lit up with a new call.

CHLOE.

It was the first time my sister had called me in months.

I answered, and she laughed as if this were some kind of family misunderstanding.

“Maddie,” she said, “why’d you call the cops? You’re making Mom cry.”

Something inside me snapped—clean and final.