“We reply once. Firmly. Politely. We state that no such agreement exists, that they have no ownership interest, and that any further harassment will be met with legal action for trespass and misuse of property.”
“Do we sue?”
“We can,” she said. “You have evidence. The damages would not make you rich, but a public win is still a win. The question is whether you want two years of your life attached to them in court.”
I looked at the lake through the window.
A boat moved slowly across the water, leaving a clean white line behind it.
“No,” I said. “I do not want a courtroom. I want my house. I want my time. I want my head back.”
“Then that is the win,” Soraya said.
Her letter went out that afternoon.
Keaton’s lawyer never replied.
My parents did not contact me directly for six weeks.
When my father finally did, he called the cardiac unit at 1:00 in the morning and told the clerk he was having chest pain and needed to speak to his daughter before going to the emergency room.
The clerk found me hanging medication in Room 7.
“Arden, your father is on the phone. He says it is his heart.”
For one second, I was a daughter again.
Then I was a nurse.
And nurses know the difference between chest pain and strategy.
I took the phone.
“Dad, if you are having chest pain, hang up and call 911.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice in case something happened.”
“Hang up and call 911.”
“Your mother and I have been doing a lot of thinking.”
There it was.
No emergency.
Just a key disguised as one.
I said, “If you ever call my workplace again claiming a medical emergency to get access to me, I will report it to hospital security. Good night.”
Then I hung up.
My hands were steady.
My heart was not.
But steady hands were enough.
