“No.”
“Have belongings there?”
“No.”
“Key?”
“No.”
“Then tell him no.”
“I did.”
“He says Mom gave permission.”
Marcus laughed.
“Does Mom own the house?”
“No.”
“Then your mother can also give me permission to move into Buckingham Palace.”
“It will have approximately the same legal effect.”
I explained the U-Haul.
The messages.
The repeated insistence that they were coming.
Marcus stopped laughing.
“Okay.”
“Keep everything in writing.”
“If they show up, tell them to leave.”
“If they refuse, call law enforcement.”
“Do not physically fight them over boxes.”
“Do not let them inside to ‘talk’.”
“And if somebody starts claiming residence, do not start debating tenant law on the porch.”
“Let the officers establish who owns and occupies the property.”
“That was my plan.”
“Want me to draft a written notice saying they have no permission to enter?”
“Yes.”
“You are really expecting them to try this?”
“I’m expecting them to behave exactly like themselves.”
Marcus sighed.
“That is unfortunately very persuasive.”
At one o’clock, the security installer arrived.
His name was Dave Mercer.
Late forties.
Former Army communications specialist, according to the patch on his work bag.
He walked the property with me.
“You want coverage here.”
He said.
“Front porch.”
“Driveway.”
“Rear patio.”
“Side gate.”
“Garage approach.”
“Correct.”
“Windows?”
“All first floor.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You expecting Ocean’s Eleven?”
“My family lacks both the discipline and wardrobe.”
Dave laughed.
“Fair enough.”
The installation took most of the afternoon.
We replaced the front deadbolt with a commercial-grade smart lock.
Added longer screws through reinforced strike plates into the framing.
Installed contacts on doors and windows.
Four exterior cameras.
A doorbell camera.
Cellular backup.
Battery reserve.
Glass-break sensors.
The garage received a camera facing the side utility area.
Dave tested everything twice.
One feature mattered more than the others.
Remote access.
I could arm the house from my phone.
I could see who approached.
I could speak through the doorbell.
And if a verified intrusion occurred while the system was armed, the monitoring company could contact emergency services under the account protocols.
“Don't think of it like a fortress.”
Dave said while packing his tools.
“Think of it like documentation.”
I looked at him.
“That’s actually exactly why I bought it.”
He nodded toward the cameras.
“If nothing happens, they're boring.”
“If something happens, boring is useful.”
The final invoice was $4,487.
I paid it.
That evening, I tested everything.
The siren was so loud that after two seconds I shut it down and stood in the hallway hearing a faint ringing in my ears.
Perfect.
Thursday morning, Mom called at 7:14.
Voicemail.
“Jake, your brother is already stressed enough without you making this worse.”
“He and Khloe have nowhere reasonable to go.”
“I told them they could stay because I knew you would do the right thing once you calmed down.”
“They're arriving early tomorrow.”
“Please make sure the door is unlocked.”
“You don't want the dogs sitting outside in the heat.”
She never asked permission once.
Even in the message intended to persuade me, my ownership of my own home remained invisible.
I saved the voicemail.
Chase texted around noon.
“You really gonna make us homeless over your ego?”
I replied once.
“You do not have permission to enter my property. Do not come tomorrow.”