Chapter 5 - The Trap at the Title Office
The Northside Title and Escrow office was a sterile, windowless room on the second floor of a brick commercial building. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare over the laminated mahogany conference table.
Abigail sat near the end of the table, wearing her faded gray coat and holding her worn leather purse in her lap.
Across from her sat Spencer, looking remarkably healthy for a man who had supposedly been on the brink of cardiac arrest less than twenty-four hours ago. He wore a sharp Armani suit, his hair neatly gelled, a smug, victorious grin plastered across his face. Beside him sat a burly, thick-necked man with a jagged scar running down his left cheek—Viktor Vance’s primary enforcer, a man known simply in local police files as "Brick."
“See, Mom? I told you everything would work out,” Spencer said smoothly, sliding a thick stack of legal papers across the table toward her. “Just sign on the dotted lines marked with the yellow flags, and all our problems vanish.”
Abigail looked down at the documents. They weren't standard hospital settlement forms. They were full property transfer deeds assigning absolute ownership of the 5nd Street duplex to Vance Holdings LLC, with a secondary rider redirecting all residual equity straight into an unmonitored offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
“This signs away the entire property, Spencer,” Abigail said, keeping her voice artificially shaky. “Not just a lien. The whole house.”
“It’s just a formality, Mom,” Spencer dismissed with a dismissive wave of his hand, leaning back in his leather chair. “Once my new business venture takes off, I’ll buy you a mansion in the hills. You won’t even remember this old duplex.”
Brick leaned forward, resting his heavy, tattooed forearms on the table. The air in the room grew heavy, smelling of cheap cologne and intimidation.
“Mrs. Riley,” Brick said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Your son has a very bright future ahead of him. But bright futures require clean slates. Sign the papers. Let’s not waste everyone’s afternoon.”
Abigail looked at the pen resting beside the documents—a sleek, gold-plated fountain pen Spencer had probably bought with money he stole from her credit cards.
She picked it up.
Spencer’s eyes gleamed with undisguised greed. He exchanged a knowing smirk with Brick.
Abigail positioned the tip of the pen above the signature line.
Click.
The conference room door abruptly flew open, slamming against the drywall with a thunderous crash.
Three men in sharp federal windbreakers stepped into the room, their badges held high. Behind them strode Jonathan Vance, accompanied by two local police detectives and a court bailiff carrying a video camera on a tripod.
“Federal task force on financial fraud and racketeering,” announced the lead agent, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “Nobody move an inch.”
Spencer leaped out of his chair so fast his leather seat squeaked loudly against the linoleum.
“What is this?!” Spencer shrieked, his face instantly turning the color of chalk. “This is a private business transaction! You have no right—!”
“Sit down, Mr. Riley,” the federal agent commanded, stepping forward and placing a heavy hand on Spencer’s shoulder, forcing him back into the chair with unyielding authority.
Brick reached inside his jacket, his hand flashing toward his holster, but before his fingers could even graze his weapon, both local detectives were across the table, tackling him to the floor and slamming handcuffs onto his wrists with a sharp, metallic snap.
“Brick! Do something!” Spencer cried out, thrashing helplessly as the federal agents slapped steel cuffs onto his own wrists.
“Shut your mouth, kid,” Brick grunted from the floor as a boot pinned his neck to the carpet.
Abigail slowly set the gold-plated pen down on the table. She stood up, smoothing the wrinkles of her navy blazer, and looked down at her son with a gaze so devoid of warmth it made him visibly shudder.
“Mom... Mom, tell them! Tell them this is a misunderstanding!” Spencer begged, his voice cracking into high-pitched panic. “You agreed to help me! You said you’d sign!”
“I never sign documents without my legal counsel present, Spencer,” Abigail said calmly, her voice steady and clear.
Jonathan Vance stepped forward, opening a leather portfolio and placing a certified court order on the table.
“Spencer Riley, you are being placed under arrest for grand larceny, wire fraud, identity theft, forgery of property deeds, and conspiracy to commit extortion,” Jonathan recited smoothly. “Every signature you forged, every loan you took out in your mother’s name, and every cent you scammed has been fully documented and recorded.”
Spencer stared at Jonathan, then shifted his terrified gaze to his mother.
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“You... you set me up,” he whispered, the realization finally breaking through his arrogant facade. “You knew all along.”
“I knew the moment I walked into your hospital room two nights ago and heard you laughing about treating me like a bank account with no password,” Abigail said, her voice dropping an octave, carrying the weight of thirty-four years of broken trust. ☕
