Two days after Christmas, my phone lit up like it had caught fire.
Eighteen missed calls.
Michael.
Isabella.
Unknown numbers.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before setting it face down on the kitchen table. Outside, snow drifted lazily across my yard. Inside, my coffee went cold.
I already knew what had happened.
They had noticed.
When you remove the foundation quietly, people don’t panic at first. They assume it’s a delay. A glitch. A misunderstanding.
Then the ground starts to shift.
The first voicemail came from Michael. His voice was tight, rushed.
“Dad, call me. Please. There’s… there’s a problem with the mortgage.”
The second was from Isabella.
Her tone was sharp, clipped, all sweetness gone.
“Dennis, this isn’t funny. We need to talk now.”
