The words private investigator should have made me feel safer.
They did not. “Who hired him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You found his name?”
“Maybe.”
Liam turned the notebook toward me. Derek Walsh. A Wilmington address.
A business registration. A private investigative license. He had found the name after matching the partial plate to a vehicle listed in a civil-court filing where Derek had testified as an investigator.
“Did you contact him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Liam looked almost offended.
“I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You thought it.”
“I’m your mother.”
He almost smiled. For a second, the apartment felt normal. Then I remembered why we were there.
“How do you know he’s connected to the car?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
He showed me photographs. Blurry.
Taken through the restaurant window. A white sedan.
A man beside it. Another image from campus.
Same build. Same jacket. Not proof.
Enough to raise a question.
“What did police say?”
“I gave them the plate.”
“And?”
“They said the vehicle was registered to a company.”
“What company?”
“Cape Atlantic Research.”
I opened my phone. Liam stopped me. “Don’t search on Wi-Fi here.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I don’t know who has access to the router.”
“That’s a little extreme.”
He looked at me. “I thought that too.” Then he showed me another page. Two weeks after he began checking the deed, his email account had received a password-reset request from an IP address he did not recognize.
Then his cloud-storage account.
Then his college portal. He changed passwords. Two days later, someone tried to reset them again.
“Did they get in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think?”
“No unusual login history.
But whoever did it knew which accounts I used.” I felt anger rise again.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
His face changed. There it was. The question I kept asking.
The question that kept sounding more accusatory each time.
“I did call you.”
“When?”
“Three times.”
“I would remember.”
“You were in meetings.”
“I call back.”
“Usually.”
The word hurt.
“Usually?”
He looked down. “You texted that week.” I searched my messages. Too many months. Too many flights. Too many hotel rooms.
I remembered one exchange. Can’t talk tonight.
Big presentation tomorrow. Everything okay?
He had replied: Yeah. Fine.
I had sent a heart.
I closed my eyes. He had given me an opening.
I had accepted the easy answer. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“No.”
“Liam.”
“It’s fine.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I don’t want you using that word because you think I need it.”
Silence. “I should have pushed.”
“Maybe.”
His answer was kinder than mine would have been. I returned to the notebook. The investigator’s company had no obvious connection to David.
Then Liam found a court record involving Chloe’s ex-husband.
Derek Walsh had been hired during their custody dispute. “By Chloe?”
“That’s what the invoice in the filing says.”
I stared. So Chloe knew him. That did not prove she hired him this time.
But it connected the white sedan to someone living in my house.
“Did you tell police?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They said they needed more than suspicion.”
Reasonable. Frustrating. I looked around the apartment.
“First thing tomorrow, we get a lawyer.”
Liam nodded.
“And tonight?”
“We leave.”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
“This place is not secure.”
“I can’t go back to the beach house.”
“We’re not going there.”
“Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked ashamed.
“Because I think they know your rental car.”
I felt cold again. “How?”
“When you arrived at the house, did anyone come outside after Chloe shut the door?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I thought. Richard had moved toward the cooler.
Helen had stayed inside. Chloe closed the door. I walked to the car.
“I didn’t look back.”
Liam reached for the notebook.
“Then maybe.”
The fear in him was no longer abstract.
It had become habit. Every window. Every car. Every login.
Every knock. I sat beside him. “Okay.”
He waited. “We’re not going to act like we know who is watching.
We’re also not going to ignore what you’ve documented.” He nodded.
“We leave in a rideshare.”
“What about your car?”
“I don’t have one.”
I forgot. He had been biking.
“Your bike?”
“At the restaurant.”
We packed his backpack. His laptop. The notebook. Three shirts. A pair of jeans.
Everything he owned in the apartment fit into one duffel bag. That made me angrier than the deed.
I had bought him a house. His family had reduced his life to luggage.
Before leaving, I took photographs of the apartment. Not for drama. For record.
Liam noticed.
“You’re becoming me.”
“Terrifying.”
We used a rideshare to a hotel fifteen minutes away, then switched again after checking in. Overcautious?
Maybe. I no longer cared. Once inside the final hotel room, I called my attorney back home.
She referred me to a North Carolina real-estate litigator named Maya Reynolds.
Maya answered at 9:40 p.m. I expected to leave a message.
Instead, she listened. Deed.
Notary. Missing papers. Changed locks.
Family occupants.
Possible investigator. When I finished, she asked one question.
“Do you have a certified copy of the deed you originally recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have proof you were outside North Carolina on the date of the transfer?”
I stopped. “Probably.” “Flight records?”
“Yes.”
“Credit-card activity?”
“Yes.”
“Work calendar?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Her voice remained calm.
“We start there.”
Not fraud accusations.
Not family confrontation. Location. Signature. Documents.
Records. “Can we remove them from the house?” “Not tonight.”
I hated that answer.
“But they’re trespassing.”
“Maybe.
We need to establish what they believe gives them possession and what the current record says. Do not change locks. Do not enter by force.
Do not threaten them.”
I looked at Liam. He had heard.
“Then what do we do?”
“Tomorrow, I pull the deed chain.
I want the original transfer instrument, not just the index. I want the notary report. And I want Sarah to prepare a timeline.”
Liam held up the notebook. “I have one.” Maya paused.
“Who said that?”
“My son.”
“What’s his name?”
“Liam.”
“Liam, do not alter that notebook.”
He sat straighter. “I won’t.”
“Photograph every page tonight. Store copies somewhere secure.
Keep the original physically separate from your devices if possible.” He looked at me.
For the first time since I found him, he seemed relieved to hear an adult take his work seriously. Maya continued.
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“If you believe someone is following either of you, call law enforcement based on behavior, not theory. License plate, location, time, photographs.
Do not confront anyone.” “Understood.”
The next morning, Maya called before breakfast. “I found the deed.” My coffee stopped halfway to my mouth. “And?”
“The transfer is worse than I expected.”
“What does that mean?”
“It wasn’t just a deed to David.”
I stood.
“What else?”
“The document transfers your full interest to a limited liability company.”
“What company?”
She read the name. Mercer Coastal Holdings LLC.
I had never heard of it. “David owns that?”
“Not according to the filing.”
“Who does?”
A pause. “Richard Mercer.”
Liam’s grandfather. The man who had stood inside my house and told me not to make a crisis.
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