“You have three,” Marcus said, numbering the pad with swift strokes. “Option one: You continue this absurd charade, let them live there until Arthur and Marilyn pass away, and deal with Brooke claiming adverse possession or equity rights ten years from now. Option two: We draft a formal commercial lease agreement demanding fair-market rent—which on that property would be roughly four thousand dollars a month for the main house and twelve hundred for the cottage—plus an agreement to repay past taxes.”
“They don’t have four thousand dollars a month,” I said. “Dad’s pension is small, and Brooke works twenty hours a week at a tanning salon.”
Marcus looked up, his dark eyes leveling with mine.
“Then we go with Option three,” he said. “A formal Notice to Vacate. Thirty days for Brooke to clear out of the cottage. Sixty days for Arthur and Marilyn to surrender the main residence. If they fail to surrender peaceful possession, we file for an immediate writ of restitution and have the Ada County Sheriff’s Department remove their belongings to the curb.”
My stomach tightened into a knot. The instinct to protect them—the conditioning of thirty-four years—screamed inside my head. *They’re your family. Brooke has a child. Dad has high blood pressure.*
Then I remembered Brooke’s smirking face.
I remembered Evan sneering, *“Eat it off the ground, Aunt Claire.”*
I remembered Dad staring at his phone, refusing to look me in the eye, telling me not to make a scene after his grandson publicly degraded me.
They hadn’t thought about my blood pressure. They hadn’t thought about my eighty-five thousand dollars, or the years I spent eating ramen noodles in a studio apartment while Brooke spent their “savings” in Arizona.
“Option three,” I said.
Marcus didn’t smile, but a sharp glint of approval lit his eyes. “Good girl. Do not call them. Do not answer their texts. Do not go to that property under any circumstances. I will have a certified process server deliver the notices this afternoon at four o’clock.”
“Four o’clock?”
