Addison’s face tightened.
I recognized him from photographs she had posted online.
His name was Travis.
He was the boyfriend our parents insisted was merely a friend because admitting otherwise would require acknowledging how often they had paid his bills.
The officer asked Addison for his phone number.
“I do not have it memorized.”
“You were texting him when we arrived,” the officer said.
Addison locked her phone.
The officer did not argue.
She documented the refusal and explained that investigators could request the necessary records.
Mom tried to recover control.
“This is absurd,” she said.
“Claire, tell them you do not want charges.
We will replace whatever was lost.”
“With what money?”
“Your father and I will work something out.”
“Did Dad know?”
Mom did not answer.
I called him.
He picked up after six rings, speaking in the careful voice he used whenever Mom had warned him that conflict was coming.
“Claire, I think everyone needs to calm down.”
“Did you enter my apartment while I was away?”
“We helped move a few things.”
“Did you know Mom forged my signature?”
A pause.
“I was told you had approved the arrangement.”
“Did you see me approve it?”
“No.”
“Did you speak to me?”
“No.”
“Then why did you help?”
His sigh carried years of practiced helplessness.
“Your mother said Addison was desperate.”
Behind me, the officer wrote something down.
I asked Dad whether he had gone to the storage facility.
He admitted driving one of the cars but insisted he had not sold anything.
When I asked about Travis’s van, he became quiet again.
“I thought he was taking old furniture to donation,” he said.
“My nine-thousand-dollar sectional?”
“I did not know what it cost.”
“You knew it was mine.”
He had no answer.
The officer requested that both parents come to the station to provide statements.
Mom refused at first, claiming she had done nothing criminal.
When the officer explained that the forged authorization, unlawful entry, removal of property, and sale of high-value items could each create separate issues, Mom’s expression finally changed from indignation to calculation.
She said they would come.
Addison was instructed to gather essential belongings while I decided whether she could remain in the apartment that night.
She looked at me as though the question itself were cruel.
“You are throwing me onto the street?” she asked.
“No.
Mom and Dad have a guest room.”
“Dad uses it as an office.”
“Then his routine can be disrupted.”
James turned away, hiding what might have been a smile.
The officers supervised while Addison packed.
