Chapter 3 - THE CLAIM AGAINST MY HOME
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
The man's voice was still coming through Sergey's phone, but the words seemed to reach me from a great distance.
Willow Street.
Our apartment.
The home my parents had given me before I married Sergey.
The home where Liza had taken her first steps, lost her first tooth, and celebrated every birthday of her childhood.
Someone was claiming a right to it.
And my husband apparently knew why.
"Sergey," I whispered, "put that phone on speaker."
He immediately ended the call.
"That was a mistake."
I stared at him.
"What was a mistake?"
"The caller. He doesn't understand the situation."
"Then explain it to me."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Natalya, please. Not tonight."
I looked at the clock above the kitchen doorway.
It was 7:43 p.m.
Liza was in her room, preparing for a chemistry exam.
Dinner was cooling on the stove.
The white roses Sergey had brought me lay scattered across the counter like evidence of a reconciliation that had never existed.
I had spent sixteen years making room for his emergencies.
His mother's problems.
His sister's debts.
His disappointments.
His anger.
But whenever I needed an answer, the time was never right.
"No," I said. "Tonight."
Sergey pulled out a chair.
He sat down heavily.
For a moment, he looked older than his forty-three years.
"My mother made some financial mistakes."
"What kind?"
"She borrowed money."
"How much?"
He hesitated.
"More than she could repay."
"How much, Sergey?"
"About ninety thousand dollars."
I stared at him.
"Ninety thousand?"
He looked away.
"With interest and fees, it's closer to a hundred and twenty."
My stomach tightened.
"Why would your mother borrow that much money?"
"She was helping Irina start a business."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Irina.
The sister who had been unemployed for six months.
The sister whose business ideas changed more frequently than the seasons.
The sister who had once borrowed $4,000 from me to open an online clothing store and never repaid a cent.
"What business?"
"An import company."
"What happened to it?"
"It failed."
"And now someone is claiming my apartment?"
Sergey didn't answer.
I leaned forward.
"Look at me."
He reluctantly raised his eyes.
"Did you use my apartment as collateral?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
"Did you sign something involving my property?"
He swallowed.
"I signed a guarantee."
"What guarantee?"
He stared at the table.
"A personal guarantee."
I felt a brief wave of relief.
A personal guarantee was not the same as a mortgage on my property.
But the relief disappeared when I saw his expression.
"Sergey, what else?"
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"They asked for proof that I had assets."
"And?"
"I provided some documents."
"What documents?"
He whispered:
"A copy of the apartment deed."
I went cold.
"You gave someone my deed?"
"Just a copy."
"Without asking me?"
"I thought I could handle it."
"Did you tell them the apartment belonged to you?"
He said nothing.
That silence was answer enough.
I stood.
"Get out of the kitchen."
"Natalya—"
"I need you to leave this room before I say something I'll regret."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he stood and walked away.
I remained beside the table, listening to his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
My hands were shaking.
Not because I believed his creditors could automatically take my apartment.
They couldn't establish ownership merely because Sergey had handed them a copy of my deed.
But I didn't know what he had signed, what representations he had made, or whether someone had attempted to record a fraudulent claim.
And I was terrified of what else I might discover.
The next morning, I called Victoria before taking Liza to school.
She listened carefully.
Then she said something that steadied me.
"A creditor's claim is not proof of a valid interest in your property. We'll obtain the documents and check the public records. Don't agree to anything or sign anything until we've reviewed it."
By noon, she had arranged for a title search.
By three, she called me back.
"Natalya, I found something unusual."
I gripped my phone.
"What?"
"There's a recently recorded notice referring to a disputed security interest in your apartment. It doesn't establish that the claimant owns your home, but it needs immediate attention."
"How did it get there?"
"That's what we're investigating."
I looked out the office window.
Below me, people crossed the street carrying shopping bags and coffee cups.
The world continued as though nothing had happened.
"Victoria, could Sergey have forged my signature?"
There was a pause.
"It's possible someone submitted a document without proper authorization. We need the original paperwork before drawing conclusions."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
Then she continued.
"There's something else. The claimant's attorney sent us a copy of a financial disclosure your husband apparently submitted."
"What disclosure?"
"A statement listing assets he claimed to control."
My heart began pounding.
"Was my apartment listed?"
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"And your grandmother's expected inheritance was listed as well."
I froze.
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
"Because my grandmother was still alive when those debts began."
Victoria was silent.
Then she asked:
"Natalya, did your husband know your grandmother intended to leave you money?"
I remembered a Sunday afternoon nearly a year earlier.
Grandma Yelena had invited us for tea.
She had been unusually cheerful.
She had mentioned that she was updating her estate plan.
Sergey had asked several questions.
Questions I had dismissed as polite interest.
How much was the apartment worth?
Had she invested her savings?
Was I her only beneficiary?
I remembered his smile.
His sudden enthusiasm.
And the way he had insisted we visit her more frequently afterward.
"Yes," I whispered. "He knew."
That evening, I found Sergey sitting alone in the darkened living room.
He looked up when I entered.
"Did you speak to your lawyer?"
"Yes."
He nodded slowly.
"Then you know."
"Not everything."
He looked away.
I set my purse on the table.
"Did you promise my grandmother's inheritance to someone before she died?"
He didn't answer.
"Sergey."
He pressed his palms against his knees.
"I thought the business would succeed."
I stared at him.
"What business?"
He closed his eyes.
May you like
And then he said something that made me feel as though the floor had disappeared beneath my feet.
"Natalya, Irina wasn't the only person involved. I owned half the company."
