Right now.
Call the venue, pay them, send out an apology. We can still salvage—”
“I’m not fixing anything.”
“The hell you’re not!”
“Let me explain something to you, Colin.” I kept my voice level, calm, the way you’d explain basic math to a confused child.
“That house you live in? The one in Broad Ripple with the nice porch and the two-car garage?
That’s mine.
Been mine for eight years. My name on the deed, not yours.”
Colin stopped pacing. “That was a wedding gift.
You gave that to Jillian.”
“I let you live there rent-free.
Past tense. You’ll be receiving an eviction notice Monday morning.
Thirty days to vacate.”
“You can’t do that.”
“That Lexus you drive? Six hundred eighty dollars a month, every month, coming directly out of my account.
Not anymore.
Tomorrow I’m canceling that automatic payment. You can figure out how to pay for it yourself or they can come repo it. I honestly don’t care which.”
His face was changing colors—red to white to purple.
“You’re insane.”
“That office space on Mass Ave where you meet your ‘investors’ and play financial consultant?
I own that building. Your lease is terminated effective immediately.
Locks will be changed Monday morning.”
Jillian grabbed my arm with both hands, her fingers digging in. “Dad, you can’t do this.
We have Liam.
We have a baby!”
I pulled my arm free, stepped back. “You want to treat me like I don’t exist? Like I’m just an ATM you tap when you need cash?
Fine.
Then my money doesn’t exist either. Not for you.
Not anymore.”
Colin moved fast, grabbed the front of my shirt, pulled me close. For a second I thought he might actually hit me—saw it in his eyes, that calculation of whether violence was worth the risk.
“You can’t do this,” he said again, voice low and dangerous.
“We’ll sue you. We’ll have you declared incompetent, senile. No sane person would destroy their own family like this.
We’ll take everything—the garage, the properties, all of it.
And we’ll win.”
I didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just stared at him until he let go and stepped back.
“Get out of my house.”
“We’ll destroy you,” Colin said. “I know people.
Lawyers who’ll tie you up in court for years.
By the time we’re done—”
“Get out.”
Jillian tried one more approach, softening her voice, making her eyes wide and pleading. “Dad, please. Think about Liam.
He’s your grandson.
What about him?”
That stopped me for just a moment. Long enough to feel the blade twist.
“Liam deserves better than parents who use people and discard them. Maybe losing everything will teach you two how to actually be decent human beings.
But that’s not my job anymore.
Now get out before I call the police.”
Colin grabbed Jillian’s arm, started pulling her toward the door. She was crying again, saying something I couldn’t make out through the sobs. At the threshold, Colin turned back one more time.
Got close enough that I could smell yesterday’s alcohol on his breath.
His voice came out quiet, controlled, far more frightening than the yelling had been. “You’re going to regret this, old man.
That’s a promise.”
The way he said it made my blood run cold—not angry, not desperate, but calculated. Like he was already planning something, working through the angles.
They left.
I watched their car peel out of my driveway, tires squealing, probably waking half the neighborhood. I stood there for a minute after they were gone, then pulled out my phone and called Marvin Williams—my best friend for thirty years, a lawyer who’d helped me buy my first garage, who’d been Nadine’s friend too, who understood exactly what kind of man I was dealing with. He answered on the second ring.
“Hector, how’d it go?”
“Colin just threatened me.
In my own house. Said he’s going to have me declared incompetent, take everything.
Marvin, we need a plan. A real one.
Fast.”
There was a pause while he processed this.
“Meet me at Shapiro’s in an hour. We’ll figure this out.”
I hung up, looked around my quiet house—Nadine’s pictures, her furniture, the life we’d built together before cancer took her away. Then I grabbed my keys.
If Colin wanted war, I was going to make damn sure I won.
Marvin was already in our usual booth at Shapiro’s Delicatessen when I arrived, a massive pastrami sandwich in front of him and another waiting at my seat. We’ve been eating here for thirty years, ever since we were young men trying to figure out how to make something of ourselves in Indianapolis.
He looked up when I slid into the booth, took one look at my face, and said, “So what did the son of a bitch do?”
I told him everything. The threat, the way Colin had said it—cold and calculated, already planning his next move.
The way Jillian had stood there letting him make threats against her own father.
Marvin didn’t look surprised. He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then said, “He’s going to play the incompetence card. Classic move when someone wants to take control of an elderly person’s assets.
Get you declared mentally unfit, assign himself power of attorney, then drain everything you’ve got.”
“How do I stop him?”
“We beat him to the punch.
Get you evaluated by a credible psychiatrist today—right now, if possible. Get official documentation that you’re of sound mind before he can shop around for a doctor willing to say you’re not.”
I pulled out my phone.
Called Lawrence Bishop, my lawyer for twenty years. Left a message marked urgent.
He called back before our sandwiches were half-finished.
“Hector, what’s the emergency?”
“My son-in-law is threatening to have me declared incompetent so he can take control of my assets. I need to get ahead of this.”
“Meet me at my office in an hour. I’ll make some calls.”
By 3:00 PM that Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in Lawrence’s office while he explained the strategy.
“We need Dr.
Barbara Sutton. She’s one of the most respected psychiatric evaluators in Indianapolis.
If she says you’re competent, no judge in Marion County will question it.”
He called her personal line—they’d gone to law school together—and she agreed to see me first thing Monday morning. “This is serious, Hector.
Bring documentation.
Bank statements, business records, anything that shows you’ve been managing your affairs competently. We’re building a case before your son-in-law can build his.”
Monday morning at 9:30 AM, I sat in Dr. Sutton’s office answering questions.
She was in her sixties, gray hair pulled back, sharp eyes that missed nothing.
For two hours she put me through cognitive tests. Count backward from one hundred by sevens.
Draw a clock showing 3:45. Name the last five presidents.
Explain how you manage your finances.
Describe your daily routine. At the end, she signed a document and slid it across her desk. “Mr.
Wallace, you’re sharper than most forty-year-olds I evaluate.
Your cognitive function is excellent, your memory intact, your decision-making sound. Here’s your certificate of competency, dated, notarized, and on official letterhead.
If anyone tries to claim otherwise, this will shut them down immediately.”
I folded it carefully and put it in my wallet. While I was protecting myself, Colin’s day was getting progressively worse.
Norman Ellis had changed the locks on that Mass Avenue office at noon, exactly as I’d instructed.
Colin showed up at 12:30 with two potential clients, stood there trying his key over and over while they watched. Finally called the building owner—got my voicemail. The clients made excuses and left.
In business circles, word spreads fast.
At 1:00 PM, Jillian was at the grocery store with Liam, trying to buy diapers, formula, actual food for the first time in months—they’d been living on takeout charged to my credit cards. Her card declined at checkout.
She tried another. Declined.
A third.
Declined. People in line behind her were starting to stare. The cashier was trying to be sympathetic.
“Do you have another form of payment, ma’am?”
Jillian left the cart there and walked out carrying Liam, who was starting to cry.
She called me from the parking lot. “Dad, my cards aren’t working.
I need to buy diapers. Liam needs formula.
Please.”
“You’ve got two choices, Jillian.
Get a job, or ask Colin’s business partners for help. You know, the ones who were more important than your own father.”
“You’re a monster.”
“No, honey. I’m just not an ATM anymore.” I hung up.
The phone rang again at 3:30 PM.
Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Mr. Wallace?
This is Dr.
Randall Cross.” The voice was smooth, professional, like honey poured over gravel. “I specialize in elderly care evaluations. Your family has expressed some concerns about your recent behavior and decision-making.
I’d like to schedule a time to visit you this week and conduct a comprehensive assessment.
