Chapter 2 - The Blue FolderI stepped away from the table and called Callum, my lead technician. He picked up on the second ring, breathless.
"Marcus, somebody just opened the side door. I got the same alert."
"Are you there?"
"I live ten minutes away. I'm driving."
"Do not go inside alone."
My father grabbed my wrist. "You're making this worse."
I pulled away. "Someone is inside my shop."
Renata crossed her arms. "Maybe if you didn't change the subject whenever you were wrong, we could finish Christmas dinner."
That was when I knew. Not suspected. Knew.
"Who has my spare shop key?" I asked her.
Her mouth twitched. "Plenty of people, probably."
"No. You have one."
My mother stepped between us like she could still smooth this over into a family misunderstanding. "Renata, tell him you're not involved."
Renata looked at our mother, then at me, and said nothing.
My phone buzzed again. Callum sent a picture — a black pickup outside my garage, rear plate hidden with duct tape, lights off. Then another notification from the office camera: motion detected.
I opened the live feed. A man in a hooded coat moved behind my desk. He pulled open the file drawer where I stored repair invoices, lease documents, insurance papers, and the folder proving I owned Renata's house. He wasn't taking tools. He was looking for documents.
"Marcus," my father said, but his tone had changed.
On the camera, the man grabbed a blue folder and headed for the exit.
I looked straight at Renata. "Who is he?"
"I don't know."
The lie was weak, but her fear was genuine.
Then Sienna whispered from the far end of the table, "Mom, is that Uncle Rhett?"
Every adult froze.
Rhett was Renata's ex-husband — the man she'd said had ruined her credit, drained her savings, and vanished after their divorce. I'd bought the house because she claimed he'd left her with nothing.
I stared at her. "Why would Rhett be inside my shop?"
"Sienna is confused."
"I'm not," Sienna said, trembling. "He came yesterday. Mom told him Uncle Marcus was getting mean about the house."
"Sienna, stop talking," Renata snapped.
Desmond flinched at her tone. That was enough.
I grabbed both kids' coats and moved them behind me. "Dad, call the police."
He hesitated.
"Now."
For the first time that evening, my father obeyed.
On the live feed, Callum's headlights swept across the garage window. The man with the folder sprinted for the side door. Callum stopped his truck sideways, blocking the alley.
The hooded man looked directly up at the camera.
Rhett. Alive. Close by. Working with my sister.
Renata lunged for my phone. I stepped back. Her hand struck my chest.
"What else have you lied about?" I asked.
"You don't understand. He was supposed to help me fix everything."
"Fix what?"
Her face went white.
Before she could answer, my banking app delivered another notification. New login attempt. Unrecognized device. Then my email lit up with a password reset request from the property tax office.
Not the utilities. Not retaliation for dinner. Somebody was trying to take my house.
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My uncle, who'd been laughing at the cat food five minutes earlier, quietly got up and locked the front door. No one was laughing now. Even the Christmas music sounded guilty.
Outside, sirens echoed in the distance — far off, not close enough.
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