My father was still standing outside the entrance.
He held the brown folder in one hand.
The locksmith stood beside him, looking through the documents.
I watched everything from the security screens.
My mother kept recording.
Nathan had moved closer to the front door.
He seemed impatient.
I knew that expression.
He had always hated waiting for something he believed should already belong to him.
The locksmith turned another page.
“Sir, before I do anything, I need to confirm something.”
Dad looked annoyed.
“What now?”
The locksmith held up the lease.
“Are you saying you have permission to occupy this property?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying.”
“And the owner has agreed to this arrangement?”
Dad glanced toward the camera.
“She knows about it.”
I pressed my lips together.
That was a lie.
A familiar one.
The locksmith looked back at the paper.
“Because the owner has directly told me not to enter.”
Dad shook his head.
“She isn't making rational decisions.”
Nathan stepped closer.
“We've already discussed this with our attorney.”
I looked toward Marcus.
He didn't move.
The officers remained inside the library.
The reporters were still seated in the dining room.
Nobody wanted to interrupt the conversation too early.
We needed my father to keep explaining himself.
The locksmith asked another question.
“Can you confirm that you have the legal right to occupy the house, even though the person listed as the owner has refused access?”
Dad didn't hesitate.
“I can confirm it.”
He said it loudly.
He wanted the camera to capture every word.
Then he added that I was not capable of making decisions about the property.
I saw one of the officers turn toward Marcus.
That statement mattered.
The false psychiatric letter was no longer just a piece of paper.
My father was now using its central claim to justify entering my home.
I picked up the intercom.
“The property is owned by my company. Your lease is not valid. You need to leave.”
My mother moved toward the camera.
Her face changed immediately.
Her eyes became wet.
Her voice softened.
“Elena, darling, please don't do this.”
I didn't answer.
“We're your parents. We are worried about you.”
I looked at the camera.
I could see the reflection of her phone screen.
She wanted a recording of a daughter refusing her mother's help.
That was the story she wanted to tell.
I had seen that performance before.
I was eleven again for a moment.
The scarf.
The Christmas tree.
The relatives listening to my father's explanation.
I took a breath.
“Mom, you know why you're here.”
Her expression tightened.
Dad stepped forward.
“Enough. Open the door.”
The locksmith lowered the folder.
“Sir, I need to be careful here. If I damage the lock, I could be held responsible.”
Dad pointed toward the entrance.
“You're being paid to open it.”
“I'm asking about the authorization.”
“You have it.”
The locksmith looked uncomfortable.
He had already agreed to cooperate with investigators.
But he still needed to behave as he normally would.
Nathan suddenly laughed.
“Why are we wasting time?”
He opened the toolbox.
A drill rested inside.
He reached toward it.
The locksmith stopped him.
“Please don't touch my equipment.”
Nathan looked at him.
“You were hired to help us.”
“I was hired to inspect a lock.”
Dad turned toward Nathan.
“Let me handle this.”
Then he looked straight into the security camera.
“You cannot prevent us from taking possession.”
I felt something settle inside me.
Not fear.
Not satisfaction.
Just certainty.
I looked toward the library.
One officer stood near the door.
Marcus held the binder against his chest.
The reporters were ready.
I pressed the intercom one final time.
“You have been told to leave. Any attempt to enter will be recorded.”
Dad smiled.
He thought I was bluffing.
He had mistaken my silence for weakness for so long that he couldn't recognize a warning when he heard one.
Nathan reached into the toolbox again.
This time, he pulled out a metal pry bar.
The locksmith stepped backward.
“Don't do that.”
Nathan ignored him.
“Move.”
My mother lowered her phone.
“Nathan, please.”
Dad pointed toward the lock.
“Get it open.”
Nathan placed the metal bar between the door and its wooden frame.
I heard the first scrape through the exterior microphone.
Then he pulled.
The old wood gave a small crack.
The alarm began.
It filled the entrance hall.
I didn't move.
I watched the officers leave the library.
And for the first time that morning, my father stopped smiling.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: When the Police Walked Into the Entrance Hall, My Mother Finally Stopped Pretending She Didn’t Know
My Family Remembered My Address Only After I Bought the One Thing They Could Not Afford to Lose
Part 5 of 20
