His face changes, anger rising fast. “You come into my house—”
My father’s voice cracks, small but fierce. “It’s not your house.”
Silence lands like a slap.
Travis turns slowly. “What did you say?”
My father swallows hard. His hands shake.
“It’s not your house,” he repeats, his voice trembling. “It was supposed to be mine. Our son paid for us to live here… and you turned it into a cage.”
My mother starts crying silently, wiping her tears with the edge of her sleeve like she’s trying not to cause anyone any more trouble.
Travis’s jaw tightens. He takes a step toward my father.
I move between them immediately.
“Touch him,” I say flatly, “and you’ll be in handcuffs before your boots hit the porch.”
Travis laughs, but it comes out wrong. “You think you can do that here?”
I hold up my phone. “Yeah,” I say. “Because I’m recording you admitting you intercepted my money.”
His eyes dart toward the back door.
Then he does what cowards always do when the walls start closing in.
He lunges at me.
I react fast, but I’m not built for backwoods brawls anymore. My suit restricts my movement, my shoes slip on the dusty floor, and Travis’s fist clips my shoulder.
My mother screams.
Lucy flinches hard and curls into herself like she’s seen violence before.
My father tries to stand, but his body won’t cooperate.
Travis grabs for my phone, snarling, “Give me that!”
I twist away and shove him back. He stumbles, and when he does, his jacket falls open.
And then I see it.
A thick leather wallet, bulging.
Not cash.
Cards.
My cards.
A bank card with my name on it. Another one. And a glossy membership card from a private club in Chicago.
My stomach drops.
Travis didn’t just steal my money.
He stole my identity.
I stare at him. “How did you get those?”
He freezes.
My father whispers, broken, “He made us sign papers.”
My chest tightens. “What papers?”
My mother’s voice is barely there. “He said the bank needed authorization. He said it was for your transfers. He said if we didn’t sign, you’d stop sending money.”
My vision blurs with rage.
Travis recovers enough to smirk. “Old people don’t understand paperwork,” he says. “That’s not my fault.”
I step closer, my voice shaking. “So you took my money and made my parents beg you for it.”
He shrugs. “They were helpless.”
That word hits me like a knife.
Because all these years, I pictured my parents living comfortably, grateful, proud of me.
Instead, they were hostages.