Part 2

She opened my refrigerator.

Examined my kitchen cabinets.

Ran her fingers along the furniture.

Then she entered my bedroom.

"Oh, this is perfect," she said.

She placed her handbag on my bed.

"My room."

I gripped the edge of the desk.

My room.

Two words.

That was all it took to transform my shock into fury.

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I considered calling her.

Instead, I opened the security archive and saved the footage.

Then I contacted the building's overnight security desk.

"My name is Marissa Keane. I'm the legal owner of penthouse 2401. Someone has entered without authorization."

The guard immediately checked his records.

"Ms. Keane, we didn't receive any move-in authorization."

"Because I didn't give one."

"Is the person inside a relative?"

"My sister. She does not have permission to be there."

He paused.

"Understood. I'll notify the supervisor and contact local police."

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"Please tell them there are two children inside."

"Absolutely."

I ended the call and returned to the camera.

Paige was speaking to Mom on speakerphone.

"Mom! We're in!"

My mother's voice filled my living room.

"Wonderful, sweetheart! Get comfortable. Once you're settled, Marissa won't have the heart to throw you out."

Then Dad spoke.

"Have your mail delivered there. Get paperwork showing that's your address."

The casual certainty in his voice frightened me more than Paige's behavior.

This wasn't a spontaneous decision.

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**My parents had planned an occupation of my home.**

And they believed they could pressure me into accepting it.

Then Paige approached the hallway.

She stopped in front of my office.

"What's this?"

She tried the handle.

Locked.

Then the keypad.

**ACCESS DENIED.**

She entered my birthday.

Denied again.

My mother's birthday.

Still denied.

For a moment, she stood motionless.

Then she returned to the living room.

When she reappeared, she was carrying my fireplace poker.

"No," I whispered.

She lifted the heavy iron tool.

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"Paige, don't."

She struck the protective keypad cover.

Once.

Twice.

The plastic cracked.

And my laptop erupted with warnings.

**SECURITY ALERT — PROTECTED OFFICE ACCESS ATTEMPT DETECTED.**

**AUTHORIZED RESPONSE INITIATED.**

Somewhere across the Atlantic, a separate monitoring system had just received notice that someone was attempting to force entry into a protected workspace.

Paige stepped backward.

She glanced at the camera.

"You should've just given me the code, Marissa."

Then she added something that made me shiver.

"Mom and Dad were right about you."

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***

My phone rang almost immediately.

"Deputy Keane? This is the security response desk. We've received an alert from your registered Arlington location."

"I'm in London," I said. "My sister entered my residence without permission. She's attempting to force open my secured office."

"Are there any children present?"

"Two. Please keep them away from that area."

"Has anyone accessed protected equipment or materials?"

"Not to my knowledge. The office door remains secured."

The representative began coordinating with local responders and the appropriate agency personnel.

I watched Paige retreat toward the living room.

She looked strangely calm.

Too calm.

At the time, I interpreted her behavior as arrogance.

Later, I would remember that expression differently.

Three minutes passed.

Then five.

Lily sat on the edge of my sofa, holding Owen's hand.

Paige paced.

Her phone rang repeatedly.

She ignored the first two calls.

Answered the third.

"Yes, Dad," she snapped.

I couldn't hear his response.

But her shoulders tightened.

"I did what you said."

A pause.

"No, I don't have it."

Another pause.

Then she whispered, "I told you I couldn't get through that door."

My pulse quickened.

**Couldn't get through?**

Why was my father interested in my private office?

Before I could process that question, someone knocked at the front door.

Three firm knocks.

Paige froze.

"Who is it?"

"Building security, ma'am. Arlington County Police are also here. We need to speak with you."

Paige stared at the door.

Then her phone.

Then the security camera.

For the first time, her confidence disappeared.

"Marissa?" she whispered.

The knocking came again.

"Ma'am, please open the door."

She slowly turned the handle.

Two uniformed officers stood outside, accompanied by a building security supervisor.

A separate agency security representative was coordinating the protected-office incident.

One officer spoke calmly.

"Ma'am, we've received a report that you're occupying this residence without the owner's consent."

Paige lifted her chin.

"My parents said we could stay."

"Are your parents the property owners?"

"No, but—"

"Then we need to establish who authorized your entry."

Paige began crying.

"My children are exhausted. You can't just throw us onto the street!"

The officer's expression softened.

"We're going to make sure the children are safe. But you need to cooperate."

She pointed toward the hallway.

"My sister's making this a big deal because she's selfish!"

Then the security supervisor mentioned the damaged office keypad.

Paige stopped crying.

I watched her face change again.

A woman's voice came from the doorway.

"Deputy Keane?"

An agency representative had arrived.

"Yes," I answered through the live connection.

"We need to discuss the attempted access to your secured workspace."

Paige stared at the camera.

Her lips parted.

"Wait," she whispered. "What kind of office is that?"

Nobody answered.

She looked toward the shattered keypad cover.

And suddenly, the woman who had proudly announced that my home belonged to her seemed desperate to be anywhere else.

***

At 3:41 a.m. London time, my father called.

I nearly ignored him.

Then I answered.

"Marissa, what have you done?"

Not hello.

Not an apology.

An accusation.

"Your daughter entered my apartment without permission," I replied. "She damaged a secured door. What exactly did you expect?"

"You're making a terrible mistake."

"Paige is the one who broke in."

"She's your sister!"

"And I'm your daughter!"

Silence.

I hadn't shouted like that at my father since I was a teenager.

Then his voice dropped.

"Listen carefully. Do not tell those people anything about the documents."

I went still.

"What documents?"

Another silence.

Too long.

"Marissa, there's something about your apartment you don't understand."

My grip tightened around the phone.

"Explain it."

"Your sister was never supposed to find out who really arranged this."

The words felt like cold water down my spine.

"Arranged what?"

He exhaled shakily.

"Just don't do anything foolish."

"Who arranged it, Dad?"

The call ended.

I stared at the screen.

Then a secure message arrived from the building's legal-management contact.

The building had received a suspicious request earlier that week concerning ownership verification and occupancy permissions.

A document had been submitted bearing my signature.

I opened the scanned attachment.

**AUTHORIZATION TO TRANSFER PROPERTY OCCUPANCY RIGHTS.**

My name appeared at the top.

My father's signature was at the bottom as a witness.

And beside it was a signature that looked exactly like mine.

Except I'd never signed it.

I enlarged the image.

The curves.

The pressure points.

The distinctive loop I made in the letter K.

It was an excellent imitation.

Almost perfect.

Then I noticed the date.

**The document had supposedly been signed while I was already in London.**

My father had made one critical mistake.

At the time of the alleged signing, I had been inside a restricted meeting with British authorities.