Then came Victor.
Handsome, polished, hungry. The kind of man who smiled with his teeth and watched your wallet with his eyes. Within six months, Clara stopped visiting unless she needed money. Within eight, she was calling me “controlling.” Within ten, she asked me to sign “some routine papers” so she could “help manage things if my health got worse.”
I had signed nothing.
But that evening, after a truck ran a red light and folded my sedan like paper, I woke up in the hospital to discover my daughter had used forged documents to list my home, transfer my car, and drain what she thought was my retirement account.
“What did I leave out?” Clara asked, sharper now.
“You should have checked whose name was really on everything.”
Silence.
Then Victor’s voice came on the line. “Old man, don’t be dramatic. The sale is done. The buyers move in Monday. Clara deserves a better life than babysitting you.”
I closed my eyes.
Pain moved through my body like fire, but my mind became very cold.
“Victor,” I said softly, “you targeted the wrong crippled old man.”
He laughed. “See you never.”
The call ended.
The nurse stepped closer. “Mr. Whitaker, are you all right?”
I looked at the IV in my hand, then at the phone.
“Yes,” I said. “Call my attorney.”
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