Chapter 1 - Don’t Make Me Get Off
“Mom, please don’t make me get off.”
Alison Reed stopped with one foot in the aisle.
The city bus had already reached their stop in downtown Milwaukee. The doors folded open, letting in a blast of cold November air. People behind her shifted impatiently.
“Ma’am?”
The driver glanced into the mirror.
Alison looked down at her daughter.
Abigail was eight years old, small for her age, with a purple backpack pressed tightly against her chest. Her face had gone completely white.
“Please,” Abigail whispered. “Gregory is at home.”
Alison crouched beside her.
“What happened?”
“I’m scared of him.”
For a moment, Alison couldn't breathe.
Gregory was supposed to be the safest person in their home.
He had been her partner for eight months. After her divorce from Christopher, Alison had convinced herself that Gregory was a second chance. He was charming, patient, successful enough to make her feel secure, and always ready with the right words.
He had even told Abigail that he wanted to be the kind of man she could trust.
But the little girl sitting in front of Alison was trembling.
“Please keep going,” Alison told the driver.
A passenger sighed loudly.
Another muttered, “Some of us have places to be.”
The doors closed.
The bus pulled away.
Only then did Abigail exhale.
Alison took her hand.
“Tell me everything.”
Abigail stared at the floor.
“Last night I woke up because I was thirsty. I went into the hallway, and Gregory was in my room.”
Alison's stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“He was standing by my closet. He didn't know I was there.”
“What was he doing?”
“Talking on his phone.”
“What did he say?”
Abigail swallowed.
“He said, ‘The girl can go later. First, I need her mother's signature.’”
Alison felt cold despite the heat inside the bus.
“What else?”
“He said the apartment was clear because I was registered at Grandma's house.”
Alison stared at her daughter.
Abigail couldn't possibly understand what those words meant.
But Alison did.
The apartment.
Her apartment.
The downtown condominium she had bought before meeting Gregory.
The property was the one thing she had protected fiercely after her divorce. Christopher had no ownership interest in it. Gregory certainly didn't.
Or so she believed.
Her phone vibrated.
Gregory.
She answered.
“Where are you?”
No greeting.
No concern.
Just the question.
“Abigail wanted water,” Alison lied. “We're getting off at the next stop.”
Silence.
Then Gregory said quietly, “Don't lie to me.”
Alison's fingers tightened around the phone.
“I saw the bus pass our street.”
Her heart stopped.
“You were waiting outside?”
“I went to meet you.”
His voice had changed.
The warm, affectionate Gregory was gone.
“Come home.”
“I'll be back later.”
“Alison.”
She heard the warning underneath her name.
“Don't let a child tell adults what to do.”
Alison hung up.
She took Abigail to a busy shopping center with security cameras and called her mother.
Catherine Reed answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
Alison told her.
There was a pause.
Then her mother's voice became firm.
“Don't go home.”
“What?”
“Stay where you are. I'm coming.”
“And Mom…”
“Yes?”
“Call Christopher.”
Alison almost objected.
Christopher was her ex-husband.
Gregory had spent months telling her that Christopher was manipulative, jealous, and waiting for an opportunity to take Abigail away.
But something inside Alison had shifted.
She called him.
Christopher arrived forty-three minutes later.
He didn't demand explanations.
He hugged Abigail first.
Then he looked at Alison.
“Show me everything.”
Alison opened her phone.
Messages.
Missed calls.
The photograph Gregory had sent earlier.
Then she remembered.
“My passport.”
Christopher looked at her.
“What?”
“My deed. Abigail's birth certificate. They're all at the apartment.”
As if summoned by the thought, another message appeared.
A voice recording.
Gregory's voice.
“I put your documents somewhere safe. Don't turn this into a drama.”
Then came a photograph.
The kitchen table.
Alison's passport.
Her property deed.
Abigail's birth certificate.
And a contract covered with yellow tabs.
At the top were the words:
PURCHASE AGREEMENT.
Alison zoomed in.
Her hands began to shake.
A second message appeared.
Come home in ten minutes. Sign it. Or I'll decide what happens to this family.
Christopher took the phone from her.
“Don't answer.”
Alison stared at Abigail.
Her daughter had known.
Not everything.
But enough.
And suddenly a dozen strange memories came rushing back.
Gregory asking where she kept her property documents.
Gregory asking why Abigail's school records listed Catherine's address.
Gregory asking whether Christopher had ever signed anything concerning the apartment.
Gregory once joking that downtown property values were “too good to leave untouched.”
Alison had laughed.
Now none of it was funny.
“He's trying to sell my home,” she whispered.
Christopher looked at the photograph again.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“The contract could be fake.”
Alison shook her head.
“No. Gregory wouldn't send me something fake.”
Christopher looked at her.
“That's exactly why I'm worried.”
A message arrived from an unknown number.
Your buyer is becoming impatient.
Alison stared at the screen.
She had never given anyone permission to sell her apartment.
Yet someone was apparently waiting for the transaction.
Someone who knew enough to contact her directly.
Catherine arrived minutes later.
The moment she saw Abigail, she pulled her granddaughter into her arms.
Then she looked at Alison.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Alison did.
When she finished, Catherine's expression had changed.
“There's something you need to know.”
“What?”
“Gregory came to my house three weeks ago.”
Alison froze.
“Why?”
“He asked me to sign something.”
“What?”
“I refused.”
“What was it?”
Catherine hesitated.
“A statement saying Abigail lived with me permanently.”
Alison felt the room tilt.
“Why would he need that?”
“I didn't know.”
Christopher stood.
“We need a lawyer.”
Alison nodded.
But before anyone could move, Abigail tugged at her mother's sleeve.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“I think Gregory knew I heard him.”
Alison's blood ran cold.
“How?”
“Because when I went back to bed…”
Abigail's voice cracked.
“He was standing in the doorway.”
The shopping center suddenly seemed far too bright.
Far too public.
Far too exposed.
“What did he say?”
Abigail looked directly at her mother.
“He said, ‘Little girls who listen at doors sometimes lose the homes they love.’”
Nobody spoke.
Then Christopher's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“It's the county records office.”
He listened.
Then slowly looked at Alison.
“Someone filed a transfer request against your property.”
Alison couldn't speak.
“Under your name.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
The terrifying part wasn't that Gregory wanted her home.
May you like
It was that someone had already begun the process of taking it.
And whoever was behind it knew exactly how to make Alison look like she had agreed.
