The house came back first.
In December, Judge Thomas Reyes of the Franklin County Court of Common Pleas signed an order in my quiet title case. He declared the quitclaim deed from me to Brand Road Holdings LLC void. Forged. Fraudulent. Of no legal effect.
The title to 6824 Brand Road, Dublin, Ohio, was restored to Rebecca A. Hale.
And the $410,000 mortgage Monica took out against my house? The judge ruled it was void as to me too. A lender who loans money based on a forged deed can’t hold the real owner responsible. The lender would have to go after Brand Road Holdings and Monica for every penny.
Carol drove me out to the house on a gray afternoon two days before Christmas.
The FOR SALE sign was gone. The lockbox was gone.
But the inside was a mess. Monica and Trevor had been living there on and off. The kitchen was full of dirty dishes. My furniture was gone. Sold, probably. Strange furniture I’d never seen filled the living room.
I walked upstairs to my old bedroom. I opened my closet.
My clothes were gone. My shoes. My mother’s quilt.
But on the top shelf, pushed all the way to the back, was a small cardboard box.
My jewelry box. The wooden one Dad made in his garage when I was twelve.
It was empty. Except for one thing.
A little folded piece of paper. Yellowed. In my father’s handwriting.
I’d forgotten it was there. He’d tucked it in the box the day he gave it to me.
“Becca. For your treasures. You’re the strongest person I know. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different. Love, Dad.”
I sat down on the floor of that empty closet and read it ten times.
Trevor’s trial was in March.
He pleaded not guilty. He took the stand. He told the jury I was the mastermind. That I’d manipulated him. That Monica was lying to save herself.
Then the prosecution played a voicemail.
Russell had found it on Monica’s old phone, backed up to her cloud account. A voicemail Trevor left her on December 4th, 2019. The day Loretta died.
“Hey, babe. Mom’s gone. Becca’s a wreck. She won’t be back in the office for weeks. Run the last three transfers tonight. Use her login. Then delete the Keystone emails. Love you.”
The jury listened to it twice.
Then they listened to Trevor’s mother’s obituary, which the prosecutor read out loud. The one Trevor wrote himself. “Loretta was surrounded by her loving family when she passed.”
Trevor wasn’t there. I was.
The jury was out for ninety minutes.
Guilty. All counts. Wire fraud. Aggravated identity theft. Perjury. Conspiracy.
Judge Holbrook sentenced Trevor Mallory to eleven years in federal prison and ordered him to pay $1.4 million in restitution.
Monica got four years, because she cooperated. And she was ordered to pay her share of the restitution, plus every dollar of that $410,000 mortgage.
On her way out of the courtroom in handcuffs, my sister turned and looked at me.
“Becca,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t answer her.
Not yet. Maybe someday.
But not yet.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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