Chapter 4 - THE WATCH THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO HIM
The officer didn't argue with my father.
He simply asked him to step away from the doorway.
“Sir, we need to establish who owns this property and why you're inside it.”
Richard straightened his jacket.
“I'm her father.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
My mother immediately began explaining that I was traveling in Europe, that the family had always handled important matters together, and that they were only trying to help me.
Chloe stood behind them with her arms crossed.
She looked less frightened than offended.
The officer asked to see the authorization documents.
My mother handed them over.
He examined the supposed power of attorney, then asked whether they had a copy of the original.
“We have the original at home,” she said.
“Then we'll need to verify it.”
My father sighed.
“This is absurd.”
The officer ignored him and asked for the property owner's contact information.
My mother gave him my number.
I answered on the second ring.
“Clara Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Officer Harris with the Boston Police Department. Are you currently outside the country?”
“No, officer. I'm in Boston.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “Are your parents authorized to enter your apartment or arrange a sale?”
“No.”
“Have you given anyone permission to change your locks?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize the documents they presented?”
“No. I believe they're forged.”
I heard my father speak in the background.
“She's confused. She's been under tremendous stress.”
Officer Harris turned away from him.
“Miss Bennett, do you have proof of ownership available?”
“I can send you the recorded deed and the probate documents confirming that my grandfather left me the apartment.”
“Please do that.”
I sent the files immediately.
Within minutes, the officer had confirmed that I was the registered owner.
He asked my parents why they had entered the property.
My father claimed they had used an old key because they believed the apartment needed to be secured.
My mother said they were concerned about my finances.
Chloe said nothing.
Then Officer Harris asked a question none of them seemed prepared for.
“Why was a locksmith called if you already had a working key?”
My father opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The locksmith, who had remained in the hallway after the argument, answered for him.
“They told me the owner was overseas and they needed to change the locks before a realtor arrived. I declined to proceed because I couldn't verify their authorization.”
Officer Harris nodded.
“Thank you. Please leave us your contact information.”
My father glared at him.
“This is a private family matter.”
“Once we receive a complaint involving possible forged documents and unauthorized entry, it may no longer be private.”
My mother began crying.
It was a familiar performance.
When I was seventeen and refused to give Chloe my savings for a school trip, my mother had cried at the dinner table until my father told me I was destroying the family.
When I was twenty-four and declined to co-sign a loan for Chloe's failed business, she cried for three days.
Now she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“We're only trying to save our daughter.”
I stared at the screen.
Which daughter?
The thought came so quickly that it almost hurt.
I was their daughter, too.
Officer Harris asked my parents to remain in the apartment while he documented the scene.
He then asked Chloe to empty her handbag onto the dining table.
She looked at him in disbelief.
“Why?”
“Because the camera footage shows you removing an object from the bedroom that may belong to the owner.”
Chloe's face changed.
My grandfather's watch emerged from her handbag.
She placed it on the table with exaggerated care.
“I was keeping it safe.”
“Did Clara give you permission to take it?”
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
It was also the first honest thing I had heard from her all morning.
Officer Harris photographed the watch and asked whether it had any identifying features.
I spoke through the phone.
“The back cover has an inscription. My grandfather's initials are engraved inside, along with the year he received it.”
The officer opened the watch carefully.
A small brass plate was attached to the inner lid.
It read:
A. BENNETT — 1968
Beneath the plate was a folded strip of paper.
My father lunged forward.
“Don't touch that!”
Officer Harris immediately moved between him and the table.
“Sir, step back.”
My father stopped.
For the first time, his composure had completely collapsed.
The officer unfolded the paper.
There was only one sentence written on it.
The original agreement is not in the apartment.
My mother stared at Richard.
“What agreement?”
He shook his head.
“Arthur was an old man. He wrote all kinds of things.”
But his eyes had gone to the mantel clock.
Officer Harris noticed.
“Is there something else we should know about that clock?”
“No,” my father said.
The officer walked over to it anyway.
Behind the clock face, he found the empty envelope my father had opened earlier.
He photographed the note and the surrounding area.
Then he asked whether anyone had removed anything from the apartment.
My father denied it.
I could see him calculating his next move.
He had been caught entering my home, but he was still trying to keep something hidden.
And that meant the evidence he feared was more important than the apartment itself.
At 12:03, Officer Harris called me back.
“Miss Bennett, we have enough information to document the incident and refer the suspected forgery for further investigation. I recommend you speak with an attorney about securing the property and protecting your ownership records.”
“Can I come home?”
“You can return, but I strongly advise against confronting your family alone. We'll explain the situation to everyone present.”
I thanked him.
Before I could end the call, I heard my mother speak.
“Richard, tell them about the loan.”
My father turned toward her.
“Be quiet.”
“The loan is why Arthur changed the agreement. They deserve to know.”
My heart began pounding.
Officer Harris looked at them.
“What loan?”
My mother pressed both hands against her mouth.
Chloe slowly turned toward our father.
“What is she talking about?”
Richard's face hardened.
“There was no loan.”
My mother began crying again, but this time the tears looked different.
They weren't meant to persuade anyone.
They looked like the tears of a person who had finally realized that keeping a secret had become more dangerous than revealing it.
“Arthur lent Richard money,” she whispered. “A great deal of money. And he made him sign something.”
My father grabbed his coat.
“I'm leaving.”
“Sir, please remain here,” Officer Harris said.
But Richard was already moving toward the door.
He stopped only when another officer stepped into the hallway.
Then he turned toward the room, looked directly at the camera above the thermostat, and spoke slowly.
“Clara, if you're watching this, you need to understand something.”
He paused.
“Your grandfather didn't leave you that apartment because he loved you more.”
My stomach tightened.
May you like
Richard reached into his jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper.
“He left it to you because he knew exactly what I had done.”
